.Jbt, 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Ben  B.  Lindsey 


i 


C        'ucl 


tL 


<-***- 


h^j^y 

/VwiAJ^ 


9009 


9009 


BY 

JAMES    HOPPER 

AND 

FRED.    R.    BECHDOLT 


NEW   YORK 

THE  McCLURE   COMPANY 
MCMVIII 


Copyright,  1908,  by  The  McClure  Company 


ps 


TO 
ONE   WHO   WEPT 


1108169 


PREFACE 

THE  impulse  which  moved  us  to  write  this 
book  was  primarily  indignation — indignation  at 
facts.  At  facts  learned  slowly  and  gradually 
by  one  of  us  through  years  of  patient  investi 
gation,  and  then  told,  all  in  one  mass,  to  the 
other,  who  thus  came  to  them  with  an  abrupt 
ness  giving  intense  vision.  A  work  written  in 
the  fervor  of  indignation  is  apt  to  be  violent, 
unbalanced,  and  unjust.  We  were  alive  to  this 
danger;  after  some  thought,  we  saw  how  we 
could  best  avoid  it.  It  was  by  using  in  the 
story  facts  only.  9009  is  a  story  made  of  facts 
— a  Fact-Story. 

By  this  we  do  not  mean  that  9009  is  a  biog 
raphy.  Convict  9009 — John  Collins — exists  only 
in  our  imagination.  But  everything  that  hap 
pens  to  9009  within  the  prison  is  something 
which  has  happened  to  some  convict  in  some 

[vii] 


PREFACE 

prison  (American  prison)  some  time.  And  much 
worse  things  could  have  happened  to  9009.  By 
which  we  mean  that  much  worse  things  have 
happened  to  some  convicts  in  some  prisons  some 
times — and  we  know  of  these  things. 

So  that,  besides  sticking  to  truth  in  writing 
the  story  of  9009,  we  have  done  more.  We  have 
eliminated  what  was  too  terrible  about  this 
truth,  and  in  the  expression  of  that  which  we 
have  divulged  we  have  used  repression.  The 
result,  we  think,  is  a  simple,  clear,  compressed 
story,  all  of  action,  which  shows  how  Society 
creates  a  Monster.  How  Society  through  sheer, 
crass  stupidity,  creates  a  Monster,  which  then 
it  has  to  destroy  (stupidly)  at  the  cost  of  labor, 
blood,  and  (which  may  concern  it  more)  of  much 
gold. 


[  viii  ] 


9009 


CHAPTER    ONE 

JOHN  COLLINS  sat  upon  the  lurching  bench  of 
the  wagon,  his  right  wrist  linked  to  a  garotter, 
his  left  wrist  linked  to  a  murderer;  his  eyes  were 
straining  for  the  first  sight  of  the  thing  he 
feared.  Before  him,  on  the  front  seat,  the  sheriff 
gossiped  lazily  to  the  driver,  who  idly  flicked  the 
lash  of  his  whip  across  the  horses'  sweating 
flanks.  Behind,  upon  the  back  seat,  the  two 
deputies  watched  with  sawed-off  shot-guns 
across  their  knees.  The  wagon  rolled  slowly, 
with  sudden  creaking  pitchings,  along  a  dust- 
heaped  road  which  coiled  its  way  to  the  summit 
of  a  tawny  hill.  To  the  east,  far  down,  white 
flecks  danced  upon  the  bay's  green  waters,  and 
from  the  shore  breaths  of  wind  came  gliding  up 
through  the  dry  wild  oats  in  long  silvery  undu 
lations. 

The  horses  gained  the  level  and  broke  into  a 
[3] 


9009 

trot;  the  carriage  plunged  forward  and  down — 
and  a  gray  wall  leaped  up  from  the  ground 
against  the  sky.  The  murderer  sucked  in  a 
whistling  breath.  The  wall  rose  as  they  ap 
proached;  it  hung  over  them,  gray  and  ponder 
ous,  turreted  as  a  mediaeval  battlement.  The 
garotter  laughed,  a  harsh  braggart  laugh,  and 
pointed,  raising  with  his  arm  Collins's  coupled 
wrist.  But  Collins  leaned  forward  unheeding, 
staring  silently. 

The  wagon,  drawing  a  smooth  ellipse,  was 
coming  up  to  a  brick  building  which  jutted  out 
like  a  buttress  from  the  centre  of  the  wall;  two 
steel-barred  gates  swung  themselves  open  as  of 
their  own  volition  as  the  prisoners  alighted. 
Flanked  by  the  murderer  and  the  garotter,  the 
sheriff  before  him,  the  deputies  behind,  John 
Collins  walked  in.  A  voice  spoke  overhead;  a 
blue-sleeved  arm  emerged  from  a  window  and 
drooped  downward,  dangling  a  large  iron  key  at 
the  end  of  its  stumpy  fingers;  from  a  stone  bench 
at  the  entrance  a  stripes-clad  man  rose,  took  the 
key,  and  locked  the  gate.  Officers  and  felons  now 

[4] 


9009 

stood  in  an  arched  passageway  which  smelled 
damp,  like  a  tunnel.  They  were  within,  but 
Collins  hardly  noted  the  fact;  he  had  turned  his 
head  and  was  watching  the  stripes-clad  man. 

He  was  the  first  convict  that  John  Collins  had 
ever  seen.  He  wore  a  two-piece  garment,  coarse 
shoes,  and  a  visored  cap.  Jacket  and  trousers 
were  circled  by  alternating  bars  of  black  and 
white;  the  cap  was  similarly  barred  from  back 
to  front.  But  it  was  not  the  garment  that  drew 
the  attention  of  John  Collins.  It  was  the  man's 
face.  There  was  something  about  it — it  may 
have  been  in  the  bloodless  cheeks — something 
arsenical  and  poisonous;  something  glittering, 
too — it  may  have  been  in  the  eyes — something 
glittering,  furtive,  and  threatening.  Collins 
could  not  fathom  the  look,  but  a  vague  discom 
fort  slid  coldly  along  his  spine. 

Walking  beneath  the  concrete  arch,  between 
the  garotter  and  the  murderer,  linked  to  them 
with  steel,  he  passed  from  beneath  the  spanning 
building  into  a  court.  On  the  right  were  several 
doors;  at  the  second  one  was  a  narrow  bench 

[5] 


9009 

upon  which  they  sat,  while  the  sheriff  unlocked 
the  cuffs  from  their  wrists  and  then  with  his 
deputies  entered  the  turnkey's  office.  The  mur 
derer  was  breathing  thickly,  like  a  man  asleep. 
The  garotter  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
stretched  forth  his  arms  rubbing  his  wrists  with 
his  hands,  and  laughed  harshly. 

"Same  old  mill!"  he  cried;  and  then,  in  a 
jeering  voice  to  Collins,  "  Yes,  take  yer  gapins 
now,  you  rum;  ye'll  see  enough  of  it  before  ye're 
done  with  it! " 

John  Collins  was  looking  about  him.  His  eyes 
fell  upon  a  little  garden  in  the  centre  of  the 
court.  A  fountain  was  playing  upon  red  flowers. 
But  he  was  still  pondering  on  the  expression 
of  the  convict  of  the  gate.  He  could  not  forget 
the  look,  and  he  could  not  explain  it.  It  was 
a  look  bearing  fear,  and  giving  fear.  It  was 
the  look  of  a  rat.  A  rat!  That  was  it.  A  look 
such  as  one  gets  from  a  rat  in  a  dusky  corner. 

The  murderer  was  staring  dully,  past  the  red 
flowers  and  the  jetting  water  which  he  did  not 
see,  staring  at  the  gray  walls  beyond  which  he 

[6] 


9009 

would  never  pass  again.  Along  the  summit  of 
the  wall  a  blue-clad  man  was  pacing  slowly, 
sharply  silhouetted;  he  held  in  his  right  hand 
a  rifle,  carrying  it  loosely,  like  a  hunter.  The 
garotter  leaned  and  grinned  into  the  murderer's 
face. 

"  You'll  wish  they'd  handed  you  the  book  and 
you'd  been  hung,"  he  snarled;  "you'll  wish  that 
more'n  once  before  ye've  croaked  in  this  mill!" 
But  the  other  did  not  seem  to  hear.  Collins, 
though  there  was  little  softness  in  his  heart, 
felt  an  uneasiness  at  the  creaking  cruelty  of  the 
words.  His  eyes  went  up  and  away  across  the 
enclosure  to  a  high  stone  building  with  top-floor 
windows  heavily  barred. 

"  Them's  the  condemned  cells  up  there  on 
top,"  went  on  the  garotter,  noting  the  direction 
of  Collins's  glance — and  then,  to  the  murderer: 
"  You'll  live  there,  pal." 

But  the  murderer  still  stared  at  the  stretch  of 
high  stone  wall,  with  its  pacing  guard  holding 
his  gun  loosely,  like  a  hunter. 

A  man  was  coming  toward  them,  across  the 

[7] 


9009 

garden.  He  was  squarely,  brutally  built,  was 
clad  in  blue,  wore  a  white  felt  hat,  jauntily 
creased,  and  as  he  passed  cut  at  a  flower  with 
his  light  rattan  cane.  As  he  drew  close  Collins 
saw  his  face,  yellow-brown;  and  set  in  this  yel 
low-brown  face,  two  eyes,  white-gray,  opaque, 
without  light;  two  eyes  hard  like  metal.  Fur 
tively  the  garotter  bent  his  head;  he  coughed 
behind  his  hand,  which  had  risen  to  hide  his  face. 
The  man  stopped,  glanced  sharply  down  upon 
him,  then  seized  the  upraised  hand,  jerking  it 
roughly  from  the  face.  His  white-gray  eyes  set 
themselves  stonily  into  those  of  the  thug,  which 
immediately  escaped  to  the  right,  then  to  the 
left,  then  to  the  ground.  The  blue-clad  man 
laughed  silently. 

"  So  you're  back,  eh,  Thurston?"  he  said.  He 
spoke  lightly,  and  his  heavy  sallow  face  showed 
no  emotion;  yet  into  it,  bending  downward  on 
the  bowed  head  of  the  other,  there  seemed  to 
creep,  somehow,  a  dull  menace.  "  Back  again," 
he  repeated  musingly;  "  and  you  thought  I 
wasn't  going  to  make  you!"  He  chuckled  with 

[8] 


9009 

little  sound.  "  I  know  a  friend  that's  here, 
a-waiting  to  see  you;  a  good  friend — ain't  you 
glad  he's  still  here,  eh?"  There  was  some 
deadly  meaning  to  the  words.  Collins  saw  the 
garotter  shrivel  beneath  them.  Then  the  man 
was  staring  at  him.  John  Collins  stared  back, 
as  it  was  his  habit  to  do.  The  eyes  met;  John 
Collins  felt  the  gray  ones,  round,  almost  lidless, 
boring  into  him  without  emotion,  without  trace 
of  human  feeling;  he  struggled;  in  spite  of  him 
self  he  felt  the  defiant  challenge  flicker  in  his 
own,  flicker,  almost  go  out;  he  threw  back  his 
head — then  the  other  had  pivoted  on  his  heels 
and,  cutting  the  air  in  a  whistling  stroke  of  his 
rattan  cane,  had  passed  into  the  turnkey's  office. 

The  garotter  muttered  an  oath  and  slowly 
raised  his  white  face.  "Who  is  that?"  asked 
John  Collins. 

"Jennings — one  of  the  jute-mill  guards,"  an 
swered  the  thug;  "  look  out  fer  him."  He  spoke 
almost  in  a  whisper  and  lapsed  silent  at  once. 

The  sheriff  and  his  deputies  were  leaving.  The 
sheriff  shook  hands  with  the  murderer  and  the 

[9] 


9009 

garotter.  "  Good-bye,  boys,"  he  said ;  "  do  the 
best  you  can  for  yourselves."  He  turned  to  John 
Collins.  "It's  your  first  time,"  he  said:  "re 
member  and  keep  to  yourself.  Keep  to  yourself 
and  hang  on  to  your  good-time;  hang  on  to  your 
copper."  He  hurried  on  after  the  others.  John 
Collins's  eyes  followed  the  three  men  into  the 
dark  vaulted  way.  Suddenly  the  tunnel  was  lit 
up  as  with  a  burst  of  golden  light;  at  its  ex 
tremity,  roundly  framed,  appeared  the  outline  of 
a  hill,  tawny  against  a  blue  sky. 

There  was  a  metallic  clang;  the  tunnel  dark 
ened  again.  Collins's  eyes  turned  back  to  the 
gray  walls.  "  Hang  on  to  your  copper,"  he  mur 
mured  vaguely. 


[10] 


CHAPTER    TWO 

FOR  some  time  the  three  sat  silent  on  the 
bench  before  the  garden,  with  its  fountain  play 
ing  upon  the  red  flowers.  The  garotter's  head, 
now,  was  bent  like  the  murderer's,  and  he  was 
muttering  to  himself.  He  straightened  sud 
denly,  touching  Collins's  elbow  with  his  hand. 

"  Listen,  pal,"  he  said  hoarsely;  "  I'll  wise  you 
to  a  thing  or  two."  His  thick  lips  trembled 
loosely.  "  It's  the  cons;  watch  them.  The  cons  " 
—he  looked  up  into  Collins's  face  almost  appeal- 
ingly,  as  though  begging  permission  to  rid  him 
self  of  a  weight.  "  The  guards — they're  bad 
enough;  God  knows  they're  all  bad  in  this  hell 
hole.  But  the  cons — they're  devils."  His  grip 
upon  Collins's  elbow  tightened.  "  Every  wan  of 
them's  ready  to  give  ye  the  worst  of  it  some  way, 
to  job  ye  if  he  can;  every  wan  of  them  is  stoolin' 
on  the  other  " — he  gulped  oddly,  seemed  to  swal- 

[11] 


9009 

low  three  or  four  times  with  the  motion  of  a 
bird  drinking — "  or  lookin'  to  kill  ye  because  he 
thinks  ye've  stooled  on  him!"  he  finished  with 
sudden  passion. 

A  stripes-clad  man  was  coming  out  of  the 
turnkey's  office.  "  The  bath-trusty"  whispered 
the  garotter,  immediately  resuming  his  cringing 
posture;  "he's  come  for  us."  The  bath-trusty 
was  dressed  as  the  man  Collins  had  seen  at  the 
gate,  but  his  hair,  instead  of  being  cropped 
close,  like  the  other's,  was  of  medium  length. 
He  was  scanning  a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand, 
and  in  his  sharp  face,  bent  to  read,  Collins  fan 
cied  he  saw  the  shadow  of  what  he  had  seen  in 
the  face  of  the  convict  by  the  gate.  As  the  man 
looked  up  at  him,  the  impression  was  confirmed. 
The  man  had  rat  eyes. 

He  waved  his  hand  to  them  authoritatively. 
"  Come  on,"  he  said,  and  turned  his  back.  They 
followed,  the  garotter  first,  and  behind  John 
Collins,  the  murderer,  still  silent,  as  though 
dazed.  They  went  through  a  hallway  and  up  an 
iron  flight  of  stairs  to  a  room  into  which  warm 

[12] 


9009 

rays  of  sun  slanted  through  a  skylight.  Here 
another  convict  received  them  pointing,  without 
giving  them  a  glance,  to  a  bench  upon  which 
they  sat  while  he  turned  to  adjust  the  lens  of 
a  large  camera.  He  wore  green  eye-shades 
instead  of  the  visored  cap;  his  black  hair  was 
quite  long  and  foppishly  parted;  a  little  mous 
tache  covered  his  upper  lip;  his  striped  jacket 
was  rounded  at  the  bottom  and  had  lapels; 
his  striped  trousers  were  carefully  creased,  and 
his  buttoned  shoes  were  of  glistening  patent 
leather.  Also  he  wore  a  white  collar  and  a 
four-in-hand  tie.  His  forehead  was  low  beneath 
the  shiny  black  bangs,  and  there  was  something 
venomously  alert  about  his  slight  body  and 
beady  eyes. 

By  this  man  and  the  bath-trusty  few  words 
were  exchanged,  and  these  obviously  restricted 
to  the  business  at  hand.  Between  them  was  a 
barrier  of  caste:  the  photographer  treated  the 
bath-trusty  with  the  same  authority  of  word  and 
manner  which  the  latter  used  toward  the  three 
prisoners.  And  yet,  through  this  barrier,  some- 

[13] 


9009 

thing  was  constantly  passing — sometimes  in 
half-averted  head,  and  often  in  sharp  sidelong 
glance  from  narrowed  eye — something  that 
showed  that  the  high  standing  of  the  one  did 
not  put  him  beyond  peril  from  the  other;  there 
was  not  a  moment  when  the  two  were  not  watch 
ing  each  other  furtively.  They  watched  each 
other  like  two  hungry  cats;  it  was  as  though 
the  photographer  were  a  cat  holding  a  bleeding 
piece  of  meat  and  the  other  were  waiting  for 
him  to  slacken  his  guard  for  just  a  moment. 
One  thing  was  plain:  there  was  absolutely  no 
community  of  interest  between  the  two  convicts; 
no  need  of  guards  to  watch  while  the  two  were 
together.  All  of  which  impressed  Collins  vague 
ly,  as  he  sat  for  his  picture,  first  bare-headed, 
then  with  his  hat  on. 

After  which  the  three  followed  the  bath-trusty 
to  an  inner  room  in  which  incandescent  lights 
glowed  yellow  between  shelves  and  drawers  that 
lined  the  walls.  At  the  order  of  another  stripes- 
clad  man,  the  three  stripped  naked  in  the  room. 
Leaving  their  clothes  there,  they  crossed  the  hall 

[14] 


9009 

and  spent  ten  minutes  in  a  large  concrete  tank, 
scrubbing  themselves  with  coarse  brown  soap 
and  warm  water.  They  returned.  The  bath- 
trusty  consulted  with  the  trusty  of  the  clothes 
room.  Again  Collins  saw  the  sidelong  looks 
from  narrowed  eyes,  the  incessant  watching, 
and  then  the  clothes-room  trusty  measured  the 
three  loosely.  He  was  a  bent  little  man,  hollow- 
cheeked;  his  eyes  roved,  shifting  from  place  to 
place  like  the  sun  gleam  from  a  mirror  in  a  boy's 
hand;  but  always  they  flitted  back  to  the  bath- 
trusty.  And  the  bath-trusty,  in  turn,  watched 
him  far  more  closely  than  he  watched  his  three 
charges. 

They  were  standing  stark  while  the  clothes- 
room  trusty  rummaged  about  shelves  and 
drawers  and  made  notes  in  an  account  book. 
Finally,  he  placed  before  each  a  little  pile  of 
clothing — underwear,  a  striped  suit,  a  barred 
cap,  and  a  pair  of  coarse  lace  shoes.  On  the 
back  of  each  jacket,  at  the  collar,  was  a  square 
of  white  cloth,  and  on  each  square  the  bent  little 
convict  stamped  in  purple  ink  a  number.  Col- 

[15] 


9009 

lins,  picking  up  his  jacket,  looked  at  the  number. 
He  was  9009. 

He  slid  on  the  garments  silently;  and  as  their 
coarseness  rasped  his  skin,  as  their  ugly  bars 
gloomed  in  his  eyes,  there  came  to  him  a  feeling 
which  the  stone  walls,  the  hardness  of  the  gar- 
otter,  the  rat  eyes  of  the  trusties,  the  harsh  im 
placability  of  walls  and  men,  had  not  yet  given 
him.  As  he  stepped  from  the  chair  of  the  prison 
barber,  his  face  smooth-shaven,  his  hair  cropped 
close,  this  feeling  took  on  a  character  of  finality. 
So  it  was  with  the  other  two.  Into  each  face 
had  come  a  heaviness,  a  blank  hopelessness;  lines 
had  sprung  that  added  years  to  age,  that  took 
away  whatever  flicker  had  remained  of  gentle 
ness  and  youth.  The  pictures  now  taken  were 
as  of  other  men  than  those  who  posed  before. 
Even  the  murderer  had  changed. 

The  summer  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  sur 
rounding  walls  as,  each  with  a  roll  of  bedding 
upon  his  shoulder,  they  stepped  out  again  into 
the  court,  after  having  been  pawed  lightly  by 
the  photographer,  measuring  them  by  the  Ber- 

[16] 


9009 

tillon  system.  They  left  the  murderer  at  the 
heavily  barred  stone  building  to  which  the  gar- 
otter  had  prophetically  pointed;  and  9009  and 
the  garotter  followed  the  bath-trusty  till  they 
came  to  a  large  open  space.  This  was  flanked 
by  two  cell  houses,  a  number  of  smaller  build 
ings,  and  a  stretch  of  high  stone  wall.  The  cell 
houses,  with  their  long  rows  of  black-barred 
windows,  frowned  down  upon  this  space  which, 
although  large,  seemed  crushingly  close,  and 
the  earth  of  which  was  beaten  by  feet  into  ce 
ment-like  hardness.  Along  the  top  of  the  wall 
two  blue-clad  men  were  slowly  walking,  ap 
proaching  a  corner  which  was  capped  by  a  box 
like  a  tower.  Each  carried  in  his  right  hand  a 
rifle,  loosely,  like  a  hunter.  In  the  wall,  near 
the  cell  house  was  a  great  steel-barred  gate, 
and  over  this  was  an  open  turret  from  which 
protruded  the  vicious  muzzle  of  a  rapid-fire  gun. 
Here  two  more  blue-clad  guards  stood  with 
rifles. 

As  9009,  the  garotter,  and  the  trusty  reached 
the  centre  of  the  yard,  the  gates  in  the  wall  sud- 

[17] 


9009 

denly  swung  inward  with  a  clang,  and  through 
the  arched  way,  beneath  the  turret  with  its 
rapid-fire  gun,  a  line  of  convicts  began  to  flow 
inward,  a  line  writhing  like  a  snake,  gray  as  a 
larva,  and  mounted  upon  legs  like  a  centipede. 
It  came,  slowly,  smoothly,  across  the  yard, 
toward  9009,  the  garotter,  and  the  trusty,  who 
had  halted;  it  crept  by  them;  its  head  sank  into 
the  door  of  one  of  the  cell  houses  to  the  right; 
and  still  the  tail  was  oozing,  as  though  it  were 
to  be  endlessly,  out  of  the  archway  to  the  left. 
9009  understood;  it  was  the  lockstep  of  which 
he  often  had  heard.  The  convicts  marched  in 
single  file,  each  with  both  hands  on  the  shoul 
ders  of  the  man  before  him;  from  this  came  the 
undulating  unison  of  the  long,  striped  thing.  It 
crawled  by  him;  he  scanned  its  links;  one  by 
one  the  white  faces  flashed  by.  Each  face  was 
set  straight  ahead,  looking  downward;  each 
face  was  white  and  held  a  dull  hardness.  And 
from  these  men,  each  touching  the  other  with 
both  hands  on  his  shoulders,  there  came  no 
sound;  the  lips  were  motionless.  They  marched; 

[18] 


9009 

from  head  to  tail  the  monster  undulated  smooth 
ly.  They  marched,  eyes  to  the  ground,  and 
grimly  silent.  And  the  stripes  of  all  were  black 
and  gray,  black  and  gray,  black  and  gray — until 
a  startling  change  in  the  ringed  line's  length 
struck  9009  almost  like  a  blow.  It  was  a  con 
vict  clad  in  stripes  of  black  and  red. 

9009  heard,  at  his  elbow,  the  sound  of  breath 
sucked  sharply  in;  the  garotter,  leaning  for 
ward  with  yellow  face,  was  watching  the  red- 
striped  convict. 

He  came  on,  linked  in  front  by  his  own  arms, 
linked  behind  by  the  arms  of  another,  a  red 
blotch  in  the  long  gray  line,  till  even  with  them. 
He  marched  with  head  bowed  and  shoulders 
bent.  His  face  was  dead-white  with  the  prison 
pallor,  heavy-jawed,  and  a  scowl  like  a  corrosion 
cleft  his  forehead;  his  eyes  scanned  the  ground 
at  his  feet. 

The  garotter  swallowed  hard,  his  knees  bent 
a  bit  and  his  shoulders  rose  a  little;  and  then, 
suddenly,  as  if  drawn  by  this  shrinking  move 
ment,  the  eyes  of  the  red-striped  man  left  the 

[19] 


9009 

ground  and  lit  upon  him.  It  was  a  flash,  a 
glance  in  passing,  a  flicker  of  the  lids,  and  the 
eyes  went  back  to  the  beaten  ground;  but  in 
that  instant  there  had  leaped  from  the  pallid 
face,  coarse-mouthed,  a  look  so  eloquent  of  hate, 
so  dire  of  promise,  a  look  a-shout  with  such 
ferocious  joy,  that  9009  himself  went  cold.  The 
garotter  was  livid,  and  drops  of  sweat  stood 
out  upon  his  forehead. 

"  My  God!  "  he  said  thickly. 

The  bath-trusty,  looking  straight  ahead  as 
though  he  were  not  talking,  said:  "  He  cut  Don- 
nely  just  after  you  left  and  got  another  twenty. 
He's  just  out  of  solitary;  first  day  in  the  jute." 

"  I  didn't  stool,"  muttered  the  garotter — and 
his  muttering,  though  low,  had  the  inflection  of 
a  wail.  "  I  didn't  stool." 

The  trusty  marched  them  on;  a  minute  later 
9009  was  in  his  cell. 


[20] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

THE  next  morning,  9009  was  awakened  by  a 
rude  hand  and  taken  to  the  yard  captain's  office 
to  be  booked.  A  keen-eyed,  iron-gray  man  met 
him  there  and,  after  stripping  him,  scanned  his 
bare  body  inch  by  inch  for  scars. 

He  examined  first  the  face  of  9009,  passing  his 
eyes  slowly  and  mercilessly  over  each  feature, 
exploring  every  fold  and  pit  of  skin;  then,  with 
the  same  passionless,  peering  scrutiny,  like  that 
of  an  old  woman  examining  a  piece  of  meat  at 
the  market,  he  searched  the  arms,  the  hands,  the 
naked  torso,  and  finally  the  feet.  At  times  he 
stopped  and  marked  down  the  result  of  his  ob 
servation  into  a  little  note-book.  When  he  was 
through,  he  had  not  spoken  a  word;  he  had  not 
seen  the  man. 

Having  slipped  on  his  garments  again,  9009 
stood  a  moment  awkwardly  in  the.  centre  of  the 
room,  not  knowing  what  was  expected  of  him, 

[21] 


9009 

and  unconsciously  watching  the  clerk  book  his 
commitment:  "John  Collins,  Union  County,  July 
19,  1897;  Burglary  and  Assault  to  Commit  Mur 
der;  five  years  and  three  years." 

The  clerk  was  young  and  slender,  clad  in  blue; 
his  boyish  lips  curved  in  a  vague  smile.  The 
book  was  thick,  heavy,  its  large  page  ruled 
off  by  vertical  lines  of  red  and  blue.  The  pen 
scratched  and  sputtered.  The  clerk  stopped  and 
replaced  it  with  another,  then  went  on  writing, 
smiling  vaguely  into  the  book. 

"  Five  years  and  three  years." 

9009  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  floor;  it  was  con 
crete,  hard,  like  stone.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
window ;  it  was  steel-barred.  Through  the  squares 
he  saw  a  stretch  of  wall;  on  the  top,  cutting  the 
sky  in  silhouette,  a  guard  paced  slowly,  carrying 
his  rifle  in  his  hand,  loosely,  like  a  hunter. 

"  Five  years  and  three  years.     Eight  years," 
.thought  9009. 

A  sudden  report,  sharp  and  loud  as  a  pistol- 
shot,  made  him  jump.  The  clerk  had  slammed 
the  book  shut. 

[22] 


9009 

The  rat-eyed  trusty  was  standing  in  the  door 
way,  beckoning.  9009  followed  him  across  the 
yard  into  the  cell-house,  up  two  flights  of  iron 
stairs,  along  a  narrow  steel  platform,  past  a 
long  row  of  steel-barred  doors,  back  to  his  cell. 
Following  the  prison  regulations  he  must  pass 
his  first  day  in  his  cell. 

The  night  before,  he  had  thrown  his  bedding 
upon  the  narrow  bunk  and,  stretching  upon  it, 
had  immediately  sunk  into  a  brutish  sleep.  Now 
he  looked  about  him. 

The  place  was  steel-walled,  steel-ceilinged, 
steel-floored.  Against  the  bottom  wall  was  the 
bunk  upon  which  his  bedding  was  heaped.  As 
he  sat  upon  the  iron  rod  forming  the  edge  of  this 
bunk,  he  had  to  bend  forward  so  as  not  to  hit 
with  his  head  the  second  bunk,  above.  The  up 
per  bunk  was  without  tenant  that  day.  The  cell 
was  wide  as  the  length  of  the  bunks — about  seven 
feet — and  of  less  depth.  That  is,  between  the 
bunk  and  the  door,  there  was  just  enough  room 
to  allow  a  man  to  pace  the  two  or  three  steps  al 
lowed  by  the  width;  two  men  could  not  do  it.  The 

[23] 


9009 

door  was  a  steel-barred  gate  through  which  the 
eyes  of  guards  and  trusties,  watchful  or  merely 
hostilely  curious,  could  always  peer.  In  one  cor 
ner  was  a  three-legged  stool;  above  it,  on  a  trian 
gular  shelf,  a  Bible  covered  with  dust;  a  placard 
shone  yellow  on  the  wall  to  the  left.  That  was  all. 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bunk,  his  survey 
made,  holding  his  chin  in  his  two  hands,  tor 
mented  by  a  strange  sensation.  It  was  an  odor; 
a  taint  was  in  the  air;  something  elusive,  but 
which  would  not  go.  Curiously  enough,  in  his 
mind,  it  called  up  visions  of  circus  menageries, 
seen  in  childhood.  After  a  while  he  worked  out 
the  connection.  The  smell  of  a  menagerie,  it 
came  from  caged  animals.  Here  also,  there  were 
things  in  cages.  These  were  not  animals;  they 
were  men.  The  taint  in  the  air,  it  came  from 
men,  many  men,  caged. 

The  idea  made  him  a  little  sick.  But  now, 
something  else  was  troubling  him,  something 
still  more  vague,  more  elusive,  more  irritating 
than  that  which  he  had  just  caught — something 
that  he  must  solve. 

[24] 


90O9 

He  felt  a  vast  sense  of  stoppage — stoppage, 
that  was  it.  A  sense  one  has  on  a  steamer  when 
suddenly  the  clanging  engines  cease  with  a  sigh; 
that  which  comes  when  one  is  alone  in  a  room 
with  the  ticking  of  a  clock,  and  this  ticking 
stops;  the  feeling  that  comes  when  one  passes 
without  warning  from  the  tumult  of  a  storm 
into  a  great  calm. 

There  had  come  a  distinct  halt  in  his  life;  a 
period,  a  gigantic  punctuation. 

9009  was  a  bad  man.  He  had  come  to  this  cell 
not  through  a  miscarriage  of  justice.  He  had 
been  bad;  he  had  been  lawless. 

He  had  been  lawless  from  childhood,  from  the 
time  when,  a  mere  boy,  cutting  away  from  a 
squalid  home,  he  had  forced  his  way  to  the  lead 
ership  of  a  "  gang  "  whose  serious  occupations 
were  pilfering  from  the  grocer,  robbing  boats 
and  box-cars,  and  whose  amusements  were  fierce 
fights  with  rival  "  gangs,"  stonings  of  Chinamen, 
torturings  of  cats,  and  experiments  in  men-vices. 

Always  he  had  been  at  war.  He  had  been  at 
war  with  men,  with  society.  And  now,  in  this 

[25] 


9009 

abrupt  cessation  of  the  whirl  of  his  life,  there 
had  come  to  him  a  feeling,  vague,  indefinite,  of 
futility — a  discouragement.  All  of  his  fighting, 
all  of  his  defiance,  his  cunning  had  after  all  led 
him  only  to  this — to  a  cell.  For  the  last  six  years 
he  should  have  been  expecting  this.  But  really, 
he  had  not  expected  it.  It  had  come  to  him  as  a 
distinct  shock.  And  now  came  this  feeling  of 
uselessness,  of  futility. 

He  had  fought  society  and  had  been  worsted. 
And  he  felt  that  always  he  would  be  worsted. 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  go  on  in  this  way.  It 
didn't  pay,  that  was  it.  Always,  he  would  get 
the  worst  of  it.  It  didn't  pay.  He  couldn't  fight 
the  world.  He  couldn't  fight  that.  His  life — 
it  had  been  a  failure.  That  was  it:  his  life  had 
been  a  failure. 

It  had  been  a  failure.  And  in  him,  now,  ob 
scure  but  strong,  there  was  a  longing  for  some 
thing  else,  for  some  elusive  thing  that  he  could 
not  name,  that  he  could  not  picture,  and  yet 
which  was  indispensable  to  him. 

Strangely  enough,  it  was  allied  in  some  way 
[26] 


9009 

with  the  impression  that  he  had  carried  away 
from  his  visit  to  Tom  Ryan. 

A  few  weeks  before  his  arrest,  Ryan,  meeting 
him  on  the  street,  had  taken  him  to  his  home  for 
dinner.  Ryan  was  one  of  the  companions  of  his 
boyhood,  and  he  had  not  seen  him  for  years. 

Ryan  had  become,  he  found,  a  common  plod 
ding  workingman — of  the  class  at  which  he 
sneered.  He  was  a  hod-carrier.  He  lived  in  a 
wretched  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city. 
He  arrived  there  every  evening,  his  brogans  red 
with  brick  dust,  his  shoulders  white  with  plas 
ter,  to  squat  at  a  table  roughly  laden  by  his 
wife,  and  shovel  food  into  his  harassed  body. 
That  evening  Collins  had  eaten  with  him. 

They  sat  at  the  table,  Ryan  with  both  elbows 
upon  it,  gulping  the  food  which  Collins  hardly 
touched.  Mrs.  Ryan,  a  squarely  built,  red-faced 
woman,  stood  between  the  stove  and  the  table, 
keeping  the  latter  plenished.  At  intervals  she 
leaned  over  and  directed  a  wandering  spoon  into 
the  gaping  mouth  of  Myrtle,  the  little  tow- 
headed  elder  daughter,  or  leaned  over  a  crib  in 

[27] 


9009 

the  corner  of  the  kitchen,  lifting  a  blanket  to 
quiet  an  acid  wail. 

After  eating,  Ryan  had  lit  his  pipe,  had  puffed 
a  while,  and  then  had  gone  to  sleep,  there  in  his 
chair. 

This,  to  Collins,  used  to  an  alert,  vigilant  ex 
istence;  to  the  excitement  of  long-plotted  and 
carefully  executed  thefts  and  of  their  resultant 
pursuits;  to  intervals  of  Tenderloin  luxury,  was 
just  the  sort  of  life  to  be  most  despised.  To 
him,  his  lawlessness  and  cheap  luxuries  were 
what  elegance  is  to  the  rich,  beauty  to  the  artist. 
Like  the  rich  man,  like  the  artist,  he  naturally 
revolted  at  the  commonplace  of  such  an  exis 
tence  as  Ryan's. 

And  yet,  that  night,  he  had  carried  with  him 
a  vague  and  inexplicable  desire  which  was  still 
with  him  now,  which  in  some  way  was  allied 
with  the  feeling  that  had  come  to  him  this  morn 
ing,  here,  in  his  cell;  which  had  to  do  with  the 
discouragement,  the  sense  of  failure,  the  dis 
gust,  almost,  that  tormented  him  as  he  looked 
back  along  the  days  that  he  had  lived. 

[28] 


9009 

And  as  he  sat  here,  his  fists  against  his  tem 
ples,  the  two  things  suddenly  leaped  together, 
coalesced. 

What  he  desired  was  that  which  Ryan  had. 

What  he,  9009,  longed  for,  what  his  life  had 
failed  to  give  him,  what  his  life  must  now  give 
him,  it  was  what  Eyan  had. 

It  was  Security. 

"  He  felt  safe,"  he  said  to  himself  with  heavy 
finality. 

Then:  "Didn't  have  to  look  out  for  no 
<  bulls.' " 

"  Didn't  have  to  look  out  for  stool-pigeons." 

"  Didn't  carry  no  gun." 

"  He  felt  safe." 

He  knew  now  what  he  wanted,  wanted  more 
than  wine,  money,  women,  cigars,  more  than  the 
joy  of  fight,  the  iron  tang  of  revolt;  he  wanted 
peace,  he  wanted  security,  he  wanted  what  Ryan 
had. 

"  No  more  of  this,"  he  muttered ;  "  no  more. 
I'll  turn  square." 

"  Square  " — not  out  of  any  ethical  renovation, 
[29] 


9009 

but  "  square,"  very  simply,  because  thus  only 
could  he  get  what  now  he  wanted,  which  was 
peace. 

By  a  freak  of  his  mind  there  came  now  to  him 
the  scratching  pen  of  the  clerk  booking  him. 
The  big  book  leaped  before  him;  he  saw  the  pen 
travelling.  "  Five  years  and  three  years." 

Eight  years!  Eight  years  before  he  could 
even  begin  his  new  life. 

And  yet — eight  years;  after  all,  it  was  not  so 
long,  eight  years!  He  gave  a  swift  look  behind. 
The  last  eight  years — they  had  not  been  so  long! 
In  eight  years  he  would  be  thirty-seven.  A  man 
had  some  years  left  at  thirty-seven! 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet  in  his  excitement  and 
was  pacing  to  and  fro  along  the  narrow  space 
between  bunk  and  door.  At  one  of  his  turns  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  placard  stuck  to  the  wall.  He 
stopped,  his  eyes  glued  themselves  upon  the 
cardboard,  a  flush  came  to  his  heavy  cheeks. 

"  My  copper!  " — it  was  almost  a  shout — "  My 
copper  " — he  slapped  his  thigh — "  By  God,  I  was 
almost  forgetting  my  copper! " 

[30] 


9009 

Before  him,  yellow  on  the  blue-black  wall,  the 
placard  shone;  its  little  black  characters  danced. 
He  read  them  carefully. 

GOOD    TIME 

Under  the  Goodwin  Act  you  have  al 
ready  earned  time  which  has  been  de 
ducted  from  your  sentence.  This  time 
had  been  deducted  as  follows: 

For  the  first  year,  two  months;  second 
year,  two  months;  third  year,  four 
months;  fourth  year,  four  months;  fifth 
year,  and  every  year  thereafter,  five 
months. 

This  time  had  already  been  earned  by 
you.  The  law  has  given  it  to  you,  and 
it  belongs  to  you.  Only  bad  behaviour 
on  your  part  will  forfeit  this  time.  It 
is  for  you  to  determine  whether  or  no 
you  will  keep  this  time  to  your  credit; 
and  for  you  alone. 

About  the  margin  of  the  printed  rule  he  saw 
pencilled  figures,  many  of  them,  where  former  oc- 

[31] 


9009 

cupants  had  made  calculations  over  and  over 
again.    He  fell  to  figuring. 

"Thirty-two  months — two  years  and  eight 
months — that  was  his  copper.  He  tried  it  again; 
a  third  time;  the  result  was  the  same.  He  could 
gain  two  years  and  eight  months. 

He  subtracted  now.  Keeping  his  copper, 
there  would  be  left  for  him  to  serve  only  five 
years  and  four  months. 

Five  years  and  four  months!  That  would  not 
be  so  long!  He  looked  back  along  his  life  to 
get  a  measure.  Five  years  ago,  he  was  turn 
ing  his  first  yegg  trick.  It  wasn't  so  long,  five 

x 

years.     In  five  years  he  would  be  only  thirty- 
four. 

He  sat  down  to  calm  himself.  "  In  five  years 
— I  wonder  where  Nell  will  be,"  he  said.  But 
the  thought  did  not  remain  with  him  long.  Al 
most  immediately  he  returned  to  the  more  pal 
pitant  subject.  He  remained  silent,  bent  over, 
thinking,  a  long  time.  And  then,  solemnly,  al 
most  with  affection,  "  My  copper,"  he  said  softly. 

He  would  work  for  it,  he  would  treasure  it, 
[32] 


9009 

his  "  good  time,"  his  "  copper."  There  were  rules 
in  this  place;  he  would  keep  them.  There  was 
work;  he  would  work.  He  remembered  the 
words  of  the  garotter  and  of  the  sheriff;  he 
would  keep  to  himself,  he  would  obey,  he  would 
do  anything  they  told  him. 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  good,"  he  said  aloud,  whimsically; 
"  I'll  be  good,  all  right." 

A  step  sounded  outside  in  the  narrow  corri 
dor,  the  door  opened  with  a  rasp,  and  Jennings, 
the  sallow-faced  guard,  walked  in.  He  laid  his 
hand  roughly  upon  the  shoulder  of  9009  and 
fixed  his  white-gray  eyes  upon  him  in  a  stony, 
passionless  stare.  9009  returned  the  gaze,  de 
fiantly,  as  had  been  always  his  habit,  in  a  strug 
gle  of  man  and  man.  The  guard  scanned  him 
long,  silently,  with  no  expression  in  his  stony 
face,  but  a  sort  of  invisible  and  heavy  threat  ris 
ing  like  a  dull  blush  into  his  cheeks.  The  look 
chilled;  9009  met  it.  For  a  full  minute  neither 
pair  of  eyes  shifted,  neither  flickered.  Then  the 
guard  loosed  his  grip  and  pushed  the  shoulder 
away  from  him. 

[33] 


9009 

"  By  God,"  he  said  evenly.  "  You  are  a  bad 
one." 

He  turned;  the  steel  door  shut;  a  bar  fell  heav 
ily  into  a  socket  outside.  9009  remained  seated 
on  the  edge  of  his  bunk,  holding  his  chin  in  his 
two  hands.  The  exultation  of  his  discovery,  of 
his  resolve,  had  left  him;  instead,  a  vague  sense 
of  danger  was  enwrapping  him;  he  shivered 
slightly.  And  to  his  nostrils  again,  an  obsession, 
there  came  the  taint;  the  taint  that  came  from 
men,  caged,  like  wild  beasts. 


[34] 


To  hold  his  copper  and  to  keep  to  himself — 
the  sheriff  knew  what  he  was  saying  when  he 
had  coupled  these  admonitions.  9009  learned 
this  through  several  months  of  silent  observa 
tion. 

He  learned,  during  that  time,  many  things 
about  guards  and  convicts.  First,  he  found  that 
there  were  two  classes  of  convicts — the  ordinary 
convict  and  the  trusty.  He  wondered  much  at 
the  trusties.  He  saw  them  all  over  the  prison. 
A  trusty  had  supervision  of  the  cells  in  his  tier. 
A  trusty  superintended  the  waiters  of  the  din- 
ing-hall.  The  druggist  to  whom  one  morning 
9009  went  for  quinine  was  striped.  Convicts 
kept  the  prison  records.  Convicts  kept  the  keys 
of  the  cell  houses.  A  murderer  serving  life  sen 
tence  had  in  his  charge  nearly  all  the  keys  in 
side  the  wall. 

[35] 


9009 

That  the  prison  officials  should  trust  a  felon 
to  the  point  of  placing  in  his  hands  the  power 
to  free  all  his  fellows  was  a  cause  of  wonder  to 
9009.  He  wondered  when  he  found  that  an 
other  stripes-clad  man  was  allowed  to  go  on 
errands  to  the  neighbouring  town  unattended. 
And  he  marvelled  at  the  fewness  of  the  guards. 
Fifty  of  the  fifteen  hundred  inmates  could  have 
overpowered  with  ease  all  the  blue-clad  guards 
within  sight  at  one  time,  were  fifty  to  act  in 
concert. 

He  watched  and  wondered,  and  these  were 
slow  months.  Without  knowing  it,  he  had  be 
gun  to  let  his  shoulders  droop,  and  he  shuffled 
slightly  now  when  he  walked.  Amid  many  of 
his  kind,  he  moved  alone,  silently  watching. 
Daily  he  saw  blue-clad  guards  carrying  loaded 
rifles.  He  heard  each  evening  heavy  bolts  fall 
loudly  into  sockets.  Each  morning  he  woke  to 
the  faint  taint  in  the  air. 

He  rose  at  six  to  the  resounding  clang  of  a 
gong  in  the  corridor.  The  rattle  of  released 
locks  and  jerked  bolts  was  followed  by  the  grate 

[36] 


9009 

of  opening  doors,  and  the  convicts,  flowing  out 
into  the  corridors,  spent  fifteen  minutes  clean 
ing  them  and  cleaning  their  cells.  For  that 
time,  speaking  was  allowed;  and  9009  noted  how 
some  of  the  stripes-clad  men  slipped,  in  passing, 
stealthy  words  from  moveless  lips;  gathered 
about  the  sinks,  others  gibed  each  other  cruelly; 
but  some,  their  eyes  on  the  floor  always,  mut 
tered  to  themselves  without  cease.  There  was 
fifteen  minutes  of  this,  then,  at  the  gong's 
stroke,  the  men,  suddenly  petrified  into  silence 
—the  silence  that  was  to  last  through  the  day — 
marched  out  to  the  dining-hall.  From  now  on 
no  speech  was  allowed.  Silently  each  man 
stepped  out  of  his  cell,  and  placed  his  hands 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  man  ahead  of  him, 
forming  the  lock-step  line.  The  guard — he  was 
a  grizzled  blue-eyed  fellow  who  had  lived  most 
of  his  life  in  prison — unarmed  as  were  all  the 
guards  who  worked  within  reach  of  the  con 
victs,  waited  till  they  were  in  formation,  and 
then  unlocked  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the 
corridor.  With  a  hissing  of  feet  upon  the  con- 

[37] 


9009 

crete,  the  line  moved  smoothly  forward,  through 
this  door,  into  a  long  outer  corridor  closed  by 
a  steel-barred  gate  from  the  yard.  The  guard, 
striding  ahead,  took  position  at  this  gate,  then, 
when  the  line  had  reached  him  and  had  halted 
compressed  and  orderly  before  him,  he  opened 
it,  letting  the  linked  men  out  into  the  yard, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  walls,  with  their  pacing 
guards.  Usually,  though,  at  this  morning  hour, 
the  guards  were  few. 

In  the  dining-hall,  the  striped  felon  who  had 
charge  of  the  waiters  commanded  the  line  by 
signals,  halting  it  at  the  door,  then  signing  it  to 
advance  until  the  convicts  were  at  their  places 
at  the  tables,  which  extended  the  room's  length. 
At  another  signal,  the  striped  men  sat  down  and 
began  to  eat  silently.  At  each  end  of  the  hall, 
overhead  in  a  small  barred  gallery,  a  guard 
stood,  holding  a  rifle,  watching  the  dumb  eaters. 

They  rose  from  their  places  at  a  final  signal 
and,  re-forming,  crawled  outside.  9009,  now, 
was  a  link,  a  vertebra,  in  the  monstrous  thing. 
He  touched  two  shoulders  before  him;  he  felt 

[38] 


9009 

two  hands  touching  his  shoulders  behind.  The 
line  crept  through  the  upper  yard,  along  a  track 
beaten  as  if  into  stone  by  its  eternal  passings, 
to  the  gates  beneath  the  turret  with  its  long, 
wicked  muzzle  of  rapid-fire  gun.  The  gates 
opened,  and  it  filed  out  into  a  lane,  between 
fences  twenty  feet  high,  made  of  barbed  wire, 
to  the  jute-mill. 

They  worked  without  speech  in  the  jute-mill, 
but  9009  saw  some  of  the  convicts,  passing 
among  the  looms  on  errands,  steal  words,  slid 
ing  them  through  lips  that  remained  motionless 
in  their  down-turned  faces.  He  stood  before  a 
whirring  loom.  At  the  height  of  his  eyes,  be 
hind  the  multitudinous  perpendicular  lines  of 
the  warp,  a  clacking  shuttle  fled  swiftly  from 
right  to  left,  from  left  to  right,  in  unceasing 
flight.  Whenever  a  thread  of  warp  or  whoof 
broke  he  had  to  retie  it  quickly;  whenever  the 
shuttle  became  bare,  he  dipped  his  hand  into  a 
basket  kept  filled  by  another  convict  and  drew 
a  new  one,  threading  it  into  place.  This  is  all 
he  had  to  do — tie  strings  and  change  shuttles. 

[39] 


9009 

The  machine  did  everything  else.  Started  by 
the  mill  superintendent — an  old  Scotchman,  the 
only  man  in  the  prison  that  wore  no  uniform- 
it  whirred  on  hour  after  hour,  holding  his  rigid 
attention,  the  clacking  shuttle  fleeing  back  and 
forth  before  his  eyes  in  incessant  flight,  till  the 
superintendent,  pressing  a  button,  brought  it 
finally  to  rest  and  freed  him  from  its  exac 
tions. 

Across  the  aisle  from  9009,  at  another  loom, 
stood  the  red-striped  convict  whom  he  had  seen 
in  the  line  the  day  he  had  entered  the  prison; 
and  it  was  the  garotter,  with  whom  he  had  come 
in,  who  had  charge  of  keeping  the  baskets  filled 
with  threaded  shuttles.  When  the  garotter  had 
been  assigned  to  this  work,  a  scene  incompre 
hensible  to  9009  had  taken  place.  The  garotter 
had  pleaded  against  the  order;  little  beads  of 
sweat  had  welled  up  on  his  forehead;  he  had  al 
most  knelt  to  Jennings,  standing  there  impas 
sive,  his  light  whip  in  hand.  It  had  taken  the 
latter's  threat  of  solitary  confinement  to  break 
the  man's  resistance. 

[40] 


9009 

At  noon,  the  striped  line  crept  to  the  dining- 
hall  and  after  the  meal  crept  back  to  the  jute- 
mill.  At  five  o'clock  it  crept  to  supper,  then  to 
the  cell-house,  and  all  the  time  it  had  been  dumb. 
Locked  in  their  cells  now,  the  convicts  were 
again  allowed  to  speak.  Cell-mate  spoke  to  cell 
mate,  quietly;  friends  threw  jocular  remarks 
through  the  bars;  and  sometimes  enemy  reviled 
enemy  in  words  crawling  as  with  vermin.  At 
counting  bell  they  stood  up  with  faces  against 
the  bars  while  a  guard  passed,  scanning  them. 
At  nine  o'clock  the  lights  went  out  abruptly,  all 
save  two  in  the  corridor.  Then  whispered  mur- 
murings  sounded  vague  through  the  shadows, 
and  the  guard  slipped  silently  along  the  tier- 
walks.  The  sound  of  heavy  breathing  succeeded. 
And  9009,  lying  on  his  back  in  his  bunk,  calcu 
lated  the  days,  added  to  the  days  that  were  gone, 
subtracted  from  the  days  that  were  left,  and 
his  arms,  folding  themselves  in  a  weary  gesture, 
seemed  to  hug  to  his  breast  his  copper. 

The  routine  changed  on  Sundays.  Twice  a 
month  the  tenants  of  the  cell  houses  went  out 

[41] 


9009 

into  the  yard  for  a  few  hours'  recess;  and  twice 
a  month,  alternating,  came  chapel. 

The  chapel  was  a  long  bare  room  with  white 
washed  walls  and  a  low  ceiling  supported  by 
yellow  posts.  One  of  these  posts,  near  the  doors, 
had  stapled  into  it,  a  little  more  than  man- 
height  from  the  ground,  a  single  big  iron  ring. 
Just  above  this  ring,  the  yellow  paint  was  soiled 
with  an  oily  smudge,  spreading  fan-wise,  in 
which  showed  vague  imprints  of  fingers  and 
thumbs;  and  the  floor  immediately  below  was 
white  and  smooth,  as  if  from  many  scrubbings. 
This  post,  on  week  days,  was  the  prison's  whip 
ping-post. 

The  convicts  might  see  visitors,  on  chapel- 
days,  in  a  space  set  apart  for  this,  near  the  office 
of  the  captain  of  the  yard.  But  no  one  came  to 
see  9009.  And  he  did  not  care.  He  was  becom 
ing  more  and  more  absorbed  in  the  earning  of 
his  copper,  absorbed  like  a  miser  hoarding  gold 
piece  by  piece.  At  times  he  thought  of  Nell— 
but  without  expectation,  in  a  detached  manner. 
His  experience  led  him  to  expect  nothing  of  her 

[42] 


9009 

kind.  "  Probably  hooked  up  with  some  guy 
long  ago,"  was  the  mental  remark  with  which 
he  usually  dismissed  thought  of  her. 

Lying  in  his  bunk  one  night,  he  was  startled 
by  a  new  and  disturbing  note  in  the  noise  of  the 
sleeping  prison,  now  so  familiar  to  him.  It  was 
a  rasp,  a  faint  scratching,  a  rubbing  of  metal 
upon  metal.  He  listened;  after  a  while  he  made 
sure  of  the  sound.  It  was  the  purring  rasp  of  a 
saw  rubbing  metal,  and  it  came  from  the  cell 
next  to  his. 

He  knew  the  two  in  this  cell — knew  them  from 
watching  them  as  he  watched  all  the  others; 
they  were  ugly  fellows,  who  always  kept  to  them 
selves  savagely.  And  now  they  were  sawing  the 
bars!  He  sat  up  on  his  elbow,  listening,  his  heart 
a-pound  with  a  contagion  of  excitement. 

A  voice  reached  him,  a  low  voice  of  warning; 
there  was  a  moving  of  bodies,  a  sly  creaking  of 
bunks;  then  along  the  steel  gang-way  passed  a 
shadowy  guard,  his  rubber  shoes  at  each  step 
giving  a  little  hiss.  A  silence  followed,  or, 
rather,  the  noise  of  the  sleeping  prison,  a  heavy 

[43] 


9009 

animal  breathing  broken  by  gurglings  and  un 
couth  snorings,  but  conformant  and  familiar, 
free  from  the  startling  new  note. 

But  the  next  night,  and  for  many  succeeding 
nights  after,  9009  heard  it  again — the  furtive 
purr  of  saw  upon  bar,  then  the  low  murmur  of 
warning,  and,  along  the  gang-way,  the  slight 
hiss  of  the  guard's  rubber  shoes.  And  one  noon 
he  saw  one  of  his  hard-eyed  neighbours  snatch 
a  piece  of  meat  from  the  dining-table  and  con 
ceal  it  within  his  blouse;  he  saw  him  repeat  this 
on  the  following  day.  They  must  be  ready  for 
the  break,  the  break  that  would  lead  them  to 
freedom — or  to  death.  Listening  to  the  saw  that 
night  (its  rasp  was  sharper  that  night,  vibrant 
with  a  new  impatience)  9009  suddenly  thought 
of  his  copper. 

He  might  be  blamed  for  this;  he  might  be  pun 
ished  for  having  known;  he  might  lose  it,  his 
copper. 

The  idea  of  betrayal,  however,  did  not  even 
cross  his  mind.  And  the  next  morning,  he 
learned  all  about  the  trusties. 

[44] 


9009 

As,  at  cleaning  time,  he  passed  the  cell  from 
which  had  come  the  sound  of  sawing,  he  saw 
inside  of  it  the  trusty  who  was  cell-tender.  The 
man — a  lean  fellow  with  pale-blue  eyes  and  red 
hair — was  stooping  over  the  lower  bunk,  his 
hand  underneath  the  blankets. 

And  that  night  the  cell  was  empty,  and  soon 
there  went  around  the  prison  the  news  that  the 
guards  had  taken  from  the  bunks  in  this  cell 
a  revolver  and  provisions,  and  had  found  the 
bars  sawed  nearly  through.  A  great  light  had 
come  to  9009. 

It  was  the  trusties!  They  guarded  the  con 
victs.  They,  it  was,  and  not  the  guards,  who 
were  the  gaolers.  And  the  guards  need  not 
watch  them;  they  watched  each  other.  They 
were  informers.  They  obtained  their  jobs,  with 
the  privileges  that  went  with  them,  by  betrayal; 
and  they  held  them  just  so  long  as  they  did 
Judas  work.  He  understood  now  why  they  had 
rat  eyes. 

The  whole  system  lay  open  before  him.  It 
was  a  system  of  vast  espionage,  of  stalking,  of 

[45] 


9009 

spying,  of  treachery,  of  betrayal.  He  himself 
was  being  constantly  watched,  watched  with 
malevolent  hope  that  he  might  stumble.  Confi 
dence  in  any  one,  of  course,  was  impossible  (he 
laughed  as  he  thought  of  his  former  wonder  at 
the  absence  of  concerted  breaks).  He  must  stay 
alone,  trust  no  one,  speak  to  no  one,  isolate  him 
self.  The  sheriff  had  spoken  true;  "good  old 
boy,"  he  now  thought,  almost  with  tenderness. 

This  new  knowledge  dictated  his  conduct 
when,  a  few  days  later,  he  was  given  a  cell-mate 
(up  to  this  time  he  had  been  alone  in  his  cell). 
Returning  from  the  dining-hall  after  the  even 
ing  meal,  he  found  a  little  bent  striped  man,  with 
spiky  white  hair,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk. 
The  little  man  sprang  to  his  feet  as  9009  entered. 
"  That's  your  bunk,  ain't  it,"  he  said  in  a  wheezy 
voice;  "  mine's  the  up  one,  ain't  it?  " 

9009  stared  at  him,  scowling.  The  little  man's 
face  was  black  with  a  mixture  of  dust  and  oil 
that  clogged  the  pores;  his  eyes  were  inflamed, 
and  the  lower  lids  drooped,  showing  the  red 
linings. 

[46] 


9009 

"You're  going  to  be  in  this  cell?"  at  last 
asked  9009. 

"  They  put  me  here,"  answered  the  little  man 
humbly,  "  My  old  mate,  he's  shoe-trusty  now." 

9009's  defiance  bristled  at  the  word.  Push 
ing  the  little  man  aside,  he  threw  himself  on  his 
bunk,  his  face  to  the  wall.  After  a  time  he 
heard  him  climb  carefully  into  the  upper  bunk — 
then  a  fit  of  hacking  cough  came  to  his  ears. 

Several  times,  during  the  night,  9009  found 
himself  awake,  listening  to  this  dry,  hacking 
sound,  and  each  time  he  thought  of  the  new 
problem  before  him.  When  morning  came,  he 
had  his  mind  made  up. 

"  You  sweep,  and  I  make  up  the  bunk,"  he 
said  harshly  to  the  new  cell-mate.  "  Next  week, 
you  make  up  the  bunk  and  I  sweep.  And  "—his 
voice  rose — "  I  don't  talk  to  you,  and  you  don't 
talk  to  me — understand?  I  don't  want  to  talk, 
and  I  don't  want  to  listen,  so  don't  you  open  your 
trap — understand?  " 

"  All  right,"  answered  the  little  man,  looking 
scared,  and  nodding  his  head  meekly. 

[47] 


9009,  standing  before  his  loom,  watching 
through  the  threads  the  clacking  shuttle  speed 
from  side  to  side,  felt  a  yellow  patch  of  light, 
which  all  day  had  been  crawling  slowly  along 
the  cement  floor,  strike  his  rough  brogans 
at  last.  This  told  of  the  ending  afternoon,  and 
immediately  a  number  sprang  in  his  mind. 
1760!  In  a  few  more  hours,  he  would  have  re 
maining  to  serve  only  1760  days.  1760 — if  he 
held  his  copper. 

He  had  held  it  for  six  months,  or,  more  ex 
actly,  for  184  days.  Each  night  he  added  one 
day  to  the  time  that  had  gone;  each  night  he 
subtracted  one  day  from  the  time  yet  to  be 
served.  These  calculations  had  become  a  mania 
with  him.  He  would  reduce  to  days  his  original 
sentence,  then  to  days  his  copper,  then  his  orig 
inal  sentence  minus  his  copper,  then  his  original 

[48] 


9009 

sentence  minus  his  copper  minus  the  days 
served,  and  thus,  by  a  laborious  and  circuitous 
path,  would  arrive  to  his  result — the  number  of 
days  remaining  to  be  served — with  a  pleasant 
sense  of  surprise. 

He  had  kept  rigidly  to  his  line  of  conduct. 
He  had  communicated  with  no  man — convict, 
trusty,  or  guard.  He  had  spoken  only  once,  to 
his  cell-mate. 

"  What  makes  your  face  so  black? "  he  had 
asked  in  a  sudden  access  of  childish  curiosity. 

"  I  work  at  the  emery  wheel  in  the  foundry," 
the  little  striped  man  had  answered. 

"  And  what  makes  you  cough  that  way,  so  dry 
and  hard  like?  "  9009  had  continued. 

"  It's  the  emery  dust  a-cutting  away  me 
lungs,"  said  the  little  man. 

"  Umph — that's  what's  the  matter  with  your 
eyes,"  said  9009,  looking  at  the  drooping  lower 
lids,  showing  red.  Then,  remembering,  he  had 
returned  to  his  determined  silence. 

The  yellow  patch  of  light  detached  itself  from 
the  feet  of  9009  and  began  to  crawl  toward  the 

[49] 


9009 

wall  to  his  left;  he  watched  his  shuttle  speeding 
with  tireless  movement  from  side  to  side.  There 
were  a  hundred  looms  in  the  room;  they  stood 
in  rows,  with  a  scant  four  feet  between  the  rows. 
The  shuttle  of  each,  flashing  along  its  groove 
from  side  to  side,  snapped  sharply  into  place  at 
the  end  of  each  oscillation.  "  Clack-clack-clack," 
they  went.  The  whir  of  the  wheels  and  the 
smooth  slide  of  moving  parts  united  in  a  silken 
fabric  of  sound;  above  this,  rang  the  clacking 
chorus,  multitudinous,  incessant,  like  the  gos 
siping  tongues  of  many  women.  9009  hated  it. 

At  either  end  of  the  long,  high  room,  an  iron- 
barred  cage  hung  from  the  ceiling.  In  each  cage 
stood  a  blue-clad  guard,  holding  his  rifle  loosely, 
as  though  waiting  to  use  it.  Two  other  guards 
walked  the  floor  of  the  room.  9009  feared  these. 
They  went  about  quietly,  armed  only  with  small 
canes.  They  reported  infractions  of  rules  and 
misbehaviour;  upon  them  depended  the  standing 
of  every  convict.  One  of  them  was  Jennings, 
the  sallow-faced  guard  with  the  white-gray  eyes. 
Occasionally,  feeling  a  presence,  9009  glanced 

[50] 


9009 

behind  him;  at  such  a  time  it  was  always  Jen 
nings  that  he  saw.  The  guard's  face  was  heavy, 
expressionless;  in  his  eyes  was  no  light.  Lying 
in  his  bunk  at  night,  9009  would  often  see  these 
eyes. 

Among  the  machines,  bearing  a  basket  filled 
with  threaded  shuttles  the  garotter  moved  in 
cessantly.  Whenever  the  garotter  came  near, 
9009  would  look  unconsciously  across  the  aisle 
at  the  red-striped  convict,  who  stood  there  at  his 
machine  sullen  and  motionless,  his  arms  folded, 
his  face  turned  down  toward  the  lower  roller 
upon  which  slid  the  finished  cloth. 

For  six  months  9009  had  seen  the  garotter 
bear  his  basket  of  threaded  shuttles,  back  bent, 
walking  silently.  Prison  pallor  had  smeared  the 
thug's  face  with  its  coat  of  gray.  This  had  be 
gun  the  first  morning,  when,  in  spite  of  his 
pleadings,  he  had  been  assigned  to  this  work. 
9009  remembered  the  grayness  and  the  sweat 
that  had  come  into  the  face  then.  These  had 
never  left  the  face.  Always  when  he  came  to 
this  part  of  the  room,  they  were  there — a  gray- 

[51] 


9009 

ness,  as  of  death,  and  little  drops  of  sweat,  as 
of  fear. 

The  red-striped  convict  never  looked  up  when 
the  garotter  came  to  his  loom,  bearing  the 
basket  of  shuttles.  He  stood  with  folded  arms, 
his  eyes  upon  the  winding  cylinder,  almost  at  his 
feet,  and  his  face  was  like  a  mask.  It  was  like 
a  mask  of  stone.  And  it  expressed  patience,  a 
patience  stony  because  infinite,  a  patience  count 
ing  upon  the  future  with  absolute  assurance. 

The  garotter  always  approached  the  loom  of 
the  red-striped  convict  from  behind  and  from 
the  left — though  he  must  go  out  of  his  way  to 
do  this.  His  bearing  changed  then.  He  tiptoed 
on  the  balls  of  his  feet,  and  his  eyes  never  left 
the  red-striped  convict,  standing  there  arms 
folded,  head  lowered,  with  an  impenetrable  and 
slanting  expression.  It  was  strange,  the  way 
the  strangler  held  his  eyes  on  the  other.  Even 
when,  having  reached  the  loom,  he  dropped  his 
basket  and  transferred  the  shuttles  to  the  empty 
basket  on  top  of  the  loom,  he  did  not  move  his 
eyes.  His  eyes  remained  motionless  while  his 

[52] 


9009 

face,  his  head,  his  whole  body  moved  about 
them.  When  he  stooped  to  his  own  basket,  his 
face  was  turned  up;  when  he  reached  above  into 
the  red-striped  man's  basket,  his  face  was 
turned  down;  always,  whatever  might  be  the  po 
sition  of  his  body,  his  eyes,  fixed,  were  upon  the 
red-striped  convict,  standing  there,  motionless 
and  impenetrable. 

Once  the  garotter,  groping  for  the  upper  bas 
ket,  had  dropped  the  shuttle  into  the  loom,  tear 
ing  the  warp.  The  red-striped  convict  had 
rushed  toward  one  of  the  pillars,  to  press  the 
button  signalling  for  the  stopping  of  the  ma 
chinery;  and  to  the  brusque  movement,  the  gar- 
otter  had  shrunk  back  and  cried  aloud.  Jen 
nings  had  smiled. 

The  yellow  square  of  sunshine  had  reached 
the  wall  to  9009's  left,  now,  and  was  beginning 
to  climb  it;  in  a  few  moments  the  Scotchman 
would  press  the  button  which  stopped  the  ma 
chinery.  Then  9009  would  march  back  with  his 
fellows  to  the  dining-hall,  and  he  would  have 
passed  his  one-hundred-and-eighty-fifth  day  still 

[53] 


9009 

holding  his  copper.  He  saw  the  garotter  ap 
proaching  with  his  basket  of  shuttles.  He 
looked  toward  the  red-striped  convict,  standing 
there  with  folded  arms,  his  eyes  downcast  upon 
the  loom's  lower  rollers.  Something  new,  sud 
denly,  had  come  into  the  man's  face. 

It  was  something  impalpable,  yet  fairly 
screaming  with  meaning.  It  lay  behind  the 
mask,  far  back  in  the  dull  eyes.  Something 
couchant  there  for  days  had  moved;  it  had 
gathered  itself  and  crouched,  now,  quivering. 
And  in  the  mask  had  come  a  new  heaviness, 
a  heaviness  that  was  a  satisfaction,  almost  a 
satiety.  But  the  man  still  stood  motionless, 
his  arms  folded  upon  his  breast,  his  face  turned 
down. 

The  garotter  came  toward  him;  and,  as  it  al 
ways  did,  his  walk  changed;  he  bent  forward, 
touching  the  floor  with  the  balls  of  his  feet  only, 
his  eyes  upon  the  red-striped  convict.  He 
stopped — and  he  did  not  see  what  was  in  the 
other's  downcast,  averted  eyes,  the  thing  crouch 
ing  in  ambush  there.  He  laid  down  his  bas- 

[54] 


9009 

ket;  he  grasped  a  handful  of  shuttles- — and 
his  gray  face  was  turned  upward  as  he  bent. 
Then  the  red-striped  convict  turned  upon  the 
garotter. 

The  strangler's  eyes  widened,  and  into  them 
came  a  great  horror.  Still  bowed  down,  he 
looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  the  other;  little  drops 
of  sweat  welled  out  upon  his  gray  forehead;  his 
bent  limbs  strove  to  straighten 

And  then  the  red-striped  convict  sprang.  And 
as  he  sprang  9009  saw  his  right  hand  go  up 
from  his  waist-band  and  flash  above  his  head 
clutching  a  long  heavy  knife  of  gray-brown  steel. 
The  garotter  was  still  striving  to  rise,  and  as 
he  strove,  the  red-striped  convict  was  upon  him. 
He  was  upon  him  like  a  boy  playing  leap-frog. 
His  two  hands,  with  a  crunching  sound,  sank 
into  the  garotter's  shoulders;  his  two  legs  twined 
themselves  about  the  garotter's  thick  neck.  The 
knife  in  the  right  hand  rose,  fell,  rose  again,  fell, 
rose  again,  fell;  it  moved  up  and  down  like  a 
swift  piston;  the  heavy  blade  stabbed  and 
stabbed.  And  9009  saw  the  red-striped  con- 

[55] 


9009 

vict's  face.  The  mask  had  dissolved;  the  dis 
tended  nostrils  breathed  and  the  eyes  blazed  joy 
as  the  red-barred  arm  plunged  up  and  down,  ac 
curately,  as  if  working  in  a  groove,  and  the  red- 
barred  knees  crushed  the  thick  neck  between 
them. 

The  guards'  rifles  bellowed  from  the  cage  over 
head.  They  flashed;  their  crash  filled  the  long, 
high  room.  They  crashed  again — the  red-striped 
convict  and  the  garotter  became  a  still  huddle 
in  the  midst  of  a  widening  pool  on  the  gray  con 
crete  floor. 

The  looms  hummed  and  purred  and  the  hun 
dred  shuttles  beat  their  clacking  measure.  The 
striped  heap  stirred,  then  was  still  again.  The 
red-striped  convict  lay  on  his  back,  his  knees 
still  gripping  the  garotter's  neck.  His  upturned 
face  now  held  no  stony  mask;  its  lines  had 
distended  in  an  expression  of  peace,  of  great 
satiety. 

Beats  of  rapid  footsteps  sounded  on  the  con 
crete.  The  machinery  came  to  a  stop  in  a  big 
silence.  Smoke  wreaths  were  still  hovering 

[56] 


9009 

overhead  as  from  the  lips  of  an  idle  smoker;  the 
tang  of  powder  reached  9009's  nostrils.  Sud 
denly  he  realized;  realized  fully  and  completely 
what  had  happened.  A  heavy  hand  fell  on  his 
shoulder,  grasping  it  like  a  vise,  and  whirled 
him  around  where  he  stood.  He  faced  the  sal 
low  guard  with  the  gray-white  eyes;  and  the 
guard  was  half-smiling 

"You  dog,"  said  Jennings;  "what  do  you 
mean  by  letting  a  man  kill  another  and  saying 
nothing!"  His  voice  was  thick,  but  his  lips 
showed  a  sort  of  satisfaction.  9009  felt  anger 
choke  him;  he  threw  back  his  head  and  looked 
square  into  the  lightless  eyes;  his  lips  parted  in 
a  snarl.  And  then  he  thought  of  his  copper,  and 
swallowed  hard,  keeping  silent. 

"  You  go  to  the  head  of  the  line  to-night," 
ended  Jennings,  and  turned  toward  the  bodies. 

Two  guards  were  tearing  the  legs  of  the  red- 
striped  convict  from  the  garotter's  neck.  It  took 
two  to  do  it.  Another  picked  up  something 
from  the  huddle  of  bodies.  It  dripped  as  he 
raised  it.  9009  looked  at  it  keenly.  It  was  long, 

[57] 


9009 

and  heavy  at  the  back.  It  was  a  file,  a  rasp  file, 
sharpened  to  an  edge  and  a  point.  Files,  then, 
could  be  obtained  and  made  into  this. 

The  guard,  holding  it  at  arm's  length,  carried 
the  weapon  away. 


[58] 


CHAPTER    SIX 

As  the  line  emerged  from  the  jute-mill,  9009, 
who  had  placed  himself  at  its  head,  was  called 
out  by  Jennings  and  taken  to  the  office  of  the 
captain  of  the  yard.  It  was  the  same  room  in 
the  centre  of  which  he  had  stood  on  his  first  day, 
six  months  before,  following  the  sputtering  pen 
of  the  smiling  clerk  as  it  wrote  his  history  in 
an  entry  of  five  spaces  across  the  lined  page  of 
the  book.  He  now  sat  on  a  bench  by  the  door, 
watching  and  listening. 

The  four  jute-mill  guards  were  all  there;  three 
of  them  talked  in  an  undertone  about  the  cap 
tain's  flat-topped  desk,  but  Jennings,  though  in 
the  group,  was  silent,  toying  with  the  file-knife 
which  lay  on  the  desk.  9009  scanned  the  weap 
on;  it  held  a  fascination  to  him.  He  noted  its 
weight.  One  could  hack  or  stab  with  it.  It 
would  split  a  skull  or  sever  a  rib.  And  the  red- 

[59] 


9009 

striped  convict  had  been  able  to  get  a  file  and 
manufacture  this  thing,  and  hide  it  till  ready. 
A  man  could  do  many  things  under  the  noses  of 
the  guards.  If  he  didn't  have  his  copper  to  look 
out  for. 

9009  drew  his  eyes  away  from  the  knife.  In 
a  corner  of  the  room,  tilted  back  in  his  chair,  sat 
the  trusty  who,  six  months  before,  had  taken  his 
picture,  with  that  of  the  garotter,  now  dead, 
and  that  of  the  murderer,  whom  he  never  saw. 
The  man  had  not  changed.  His  striped  gar 
ments,  tailored  almost  to  dandiness,  were  care 
fully  pressed;  his  patent-leather  shoes  shone;  his 
linen  collar  was  spotless;  in  his  tie  was  a  pearl 
scarf-pin.  And  his  shiny  black  hair  was  parted 
foppishly  in  two  bangs  that  descended  upon  the 
low  and  livid  forehead. 

A  door  swung  open,  and  the  captain  entered. 
The  trusty  met  him  at  the  desk  and  began 
speaking. 

He  spoke  in  an  undertone,  deferentially  but 
persuasively.  As  he  bent  his  head,  passing  his 
tongue  between  his  thin  lips,  his  hazel  eyes 

[60] 


9009 

shifted,  showing  green  light.  He  held  a  cigar 
between  his  long  white  fingers;  now  and  then  he 
flicked  off  the  ashes  nervously. 

The  blue-clad  captain  was  shaking  his  head  as 
he  listened,  and  a  frown,  cutting  the  narrow 
space  between  his  shaggy  brows,  told  of  worry. 
He  was  built  on  square  lines,  and  his  jaw  was 
heavy,  but  he  showed  now  no  decision  in  his 
manner.  It  was  the  thin-faced  trusty  who  was 
deciding  through  the  persuasive  hiss  of  his  whis 
pering.  Fragments  of  sentences  reached  9009. 
They  were  discussing  the  punishment  of  some 
convict,  some  convict  other  than  himself. 

"  Dangerous  man — these  two  breaks,  remem 
ber — not  broken,"  in  detached  hissing  bits  from 
the  trusty,  whose  eyes  flickered  green. 

Then  the  subdued  but  big  growling  voice  of 
the  captain :  "  A  long  talk  with  him — talked 
right — willing  to  be  a  good  dog — two  years'  soli 
tary — broken  now." 

Again  the  detached  hisses:  "  Yes,  but — remem 
ber — bad  one — more." 

The  whispering  sunk  still  lower;  an  assur- 
[61] 


9009 

ance  was  coming  into  the  trusty's  manner.  The 
captain's  head  dropped  in  assent.  He  had  evi 
dently  yielded.  But  the  perplexed  frown  was 
still  on  his  forehead  as  now  he  turned  to  the 
guards.  The  trusty  followed  him.  His  white 
face  was  placid  with  satisfaction.  A  hot  hate 
rose  through  9009.  So  that  was  the  way  they  did 
it;  that  was  the  way  they  sent  a  man  to  the  soli 
tary  or  to  the  whipping-post!  Unconsciously, 
his  eyes  roved  back  to  the  knife,  lying  there, 
heavy,  upon  the  desk. 

One  after  the  other,  the  jute-mill  guards  told 
their  stories  of  the  murder  and  of  the  shooting 
to  the  captain  while  he  sat  at  his  desk,  listening 
closely.  The  trusty  sat  near  him,  making  notes 
on  a  short  hand  pad,  his  sharp,  white  face  thrust 
avidly  forward.  The  captain  listened  in  silence, 
drumming  on  the  desk  with  his  thick  fingers. 
Once  he  picked  up  the  file-knife  and  examined 
it.  Occasionally  a  guard  would  halt  at  a  sign 
from  the  trusty  and  would  repeat  some  part  of 
his  statement.  Each,  as  he  finished,  left  the  of 
fice,  and  finally  it  was  Jennings's  turn  to  speak. 

[62] 


9009 

He  bent  his  face  close  to  the  captain's  and 
talked  a  long  time.  9009  could  not  catch  a  word 
of  what  he  said;  but  once  he  saw  the  captain 
look  up  and  glance  sharply  toward  him.  Then 
Jennings  straightened  up.  He  had  finished.  He 
looked  into  the  captain's  eyes.  The  captain 
nodded  silently,  a  triple  nod  that  told  under 
standing,  agreement,  and  promise.  Jennings 
turned  and  went  out.  The  case  of  9009  had  been 
decided. 

Suddenly  9009  found  himself  on  his  feet,  and 
a  hoarse  voice  that  he  hardly  recognised  as  his 
own  was  bellowing :  "  Say,  don't  I  get  any  say 
about  this?  don't  I  get  any  say?" 

The  trusty,  who  was  near  the  door,  turned  and 
threw  back  a  glance  half  curious,  half  ironical, 
then  went  on  softly,  on  the  balls  of  his  feet, 
into  an  inner  office.  The  captain  did  not  look 
up;  he  sat  drumming  the  desk  with  his  thick 
fingers.  But  the  scowl  had  deepened  between 
his  shaggy  brows,  and  his  eyes  had  become  very 
small.  9009  dropped  back  upon  the  bench;  he 
gripped  the  edge  and  waited.  And  again,  irre- 

[63] 


9009 

sistibly,  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  file-knife,  ly 
ing  heavy  on  the  desk. 

"  Collins,  come  over  here."  The  captain's 
voice  was  quiet,  but  leaden.  9009  rose  slowly 
and  came  near,  the  desk  between  them.  The 
captain  took  the  file-knife  and  locked  it  in  a 
drawer  above  his  knees.  Then  he  sat  regarding 
the  convict  in  silence.  As  he  looked  into  the 
sombre  eyes  of  the  captain  and  at  the  scowl  be 
tween  his  shaggy  brows,  9009  let  his  head  go 
back,  stiffening  his  thick  neck,  and  his  under- 
jaw  thrust  itself  slightly  forward.  He  could  not 
help  it;  the  movement  was  a  pure  reflex,  as  un 
conscious  as  the  threat-grimace  of  a  dog  meet 
ing  the  growl  of  another  dog.  The  captain 
watched  the  change,  searching  the  hard  face  be 
fore  him.  Then  he  spoke,  slowly,  uttering  each 
word  with  great  distinctness. 

"  You  watched  Japanese  Tommy  kill  Thurston 
this  afternoon,  and  you  didn't  call  a  guard  nor 
make  a  signal."  He  paused.  A  twitch  of  pro 
test  rose  from  9009's  feet  along  his  whole  body. 
But  it  had  not  time  to  find  voice;  the  captain 

[64] 


9009 

was  speaking  again,  with  his  heavy  pounding  in 
flection:  "And  a  month  ago  you  heard  Smith 
and  Boone  saw  their  bars;  you  heard  'em  for 
weeks — and  you  said  nothing." 

9009  sickened.  He  had  the  sensation  as  of  a 
great  net  which  had  fallen  about  him,  over  his 
head,  around  his  arms.  They  had  known  this  all 
the  time!  They  had  known  it  and  had  kept  it 
all  this  time  waiting  for  their  good  chance.  He 
continued  staring  at  the  captain,  eye  to  eye, 
silently,  but  a  little  haze  of  sweat,  like  the  film 
on  the  window-pane  of  a  heated  room,  was  com 
ing  upon  his  forehead. 

"Wilson!"  the  captain  called  out  without 
moving. 

The  trusty  came  from  the  inner  office.  His 
tongue  passed  between  his  thin  lips,  catlike. 
"  Get  me  number  eight  key,"  said  the  captain. 

"  I  know  you  like  a  book,"  the  captain  went 
on,  almost  indifferently  to  9009;  "I've  handled 
the  likes  of  you  for  years,  and " — he  paused 
thoughtfully — "  I  generally  manage  to  break 
you  fellows."  He  glanced  up  sharply  at  9009 

[65] 


9009 

and  without  looking  took  a  heavy  key  from  Wil 
son  who  had  come  with  it  behind  him;  then  went 
on,  pointing  at  the  key  with  his  index  finger. 
"  You  come  here  thinkin'  you  were  bigger  than 
the  guards;  and  we've  known  you  from  the  start, 
and  watched  you.  You're  the  kind  that  gener 
ally  manage  to  lose  your  copper" — 9009  went 
yellow.  The  captain  rose  and  stood  still  a  mo 
ment.  "  You  ought  to  lose  it  for  this  affair,"  he 
went  on — 9009  swallowed  hard — "  but  I'm  going 
to  give  you  one  more  chance;  I'll  give  you  a  taste 
of  what  we  have  for  you  bad  men."  He  weighed 
upon  the  last  three  words  heavily,  with  ponder 
ous  sarcasm,  but  this  was  lost  on  9009.  He  was 
taking  a  big  gulp  of  relief.  "  Come  on,"  said  the 
captain. 

They  went,  without  a  word,  across  the  yard, 
to  one  of  the  cell-houses,  and  down  a  flight  of 
stairs,  to  the  basement.  The  captain  stopped 
before  a  heavy  door  of  oak,  studded  with  spikes, 
and  signed  to  a  trusty  who  met  him  there.  The 
man  swung  open  the  outer  door  of  oak,  and  then 
an  inner  door  of  smooth  steel.  9009  entered. 

[66] 


9009 

The  door  creaked  shut  behind  him;  the  outer 
door  slammed;  he  heard  a  bolt  fall.  And  there 
was  no  longer  sound  or  sight. 

He  stood  on  a  steel  floor,  in  darkness.  This 
darkness  was  absolute.  It  seemed  to  have 
weight,  to  press  down  upon  him.  It  smothered. 
And  there  was  no  sound.  It  was  as  though  he 
were  buried  deeply  with  tons  and  tons  of  silent 
earth  upon  him.  He  stood  still  a  long  moment, 
while  this  feeling  enwrapped  him  slowly;  then 
he  stepped  forward  on  tiptoe,  reaching  with 
hands  before  him,  till  he  touched  a  wall.  It  was 
of  steel,  and  he  ran  his  fingers  over  rivets.  Face 
to  this  wall,  he  moved  to  the  right,  struck  a  cor 
ner,  then  another  wall;  another  corner,  another 
wall;  another  corner;  another  wall;  a  fourth  cor 
ner,  and  the  wall  from  which  he  had  started. 
But  missing  his  tale,  he  went  about  a  fifth  cor 
ner,  counting  it  as  the  fourth,  felt  a  vague  sense 
of  mistake,  and  then,  suddenly,  a  dizziness  made 
him  sway  on  his  legs.  He  had  lost  his  bearings; 
it  was  as  if,  about  a  pivot  upon  which  he  stood, 
the  whole  world  had  revolved  several  times. 

[67] 


9009 

Controlling  the  sickness  within  him,  he  went 
around  the  cell  several  times,  eyes  shut,  groping 
carefully;  and  at  last,  like  a  blessing,  there  came 
to  his  finger-tips  the  feel  of  the  joining  of  the 
door-edge;  and  the  world,  swinging,  readjusted 
itself;  and  again,  in  his  head,  like  a  reassurance, 
he  held  the  plan  of  the  prison.  Preserving  this 
carefully,  he  dropped  to  his  hands  and  knees  and 
crawled  over  the  floor.  It  stretched,  smooth, 
without  a  wrinkle,  between  the  four  smooth 
walls;  there  was  on  it  nothing,  not  a  stool,  not  a 
blanket — nothing. 

He  stood  up  in  the  centre.  There  oozed  to  him 
not  a  drop  of  light;  above  his  head,  cold  eddies 
of  air  passed  like  vague  beings.  A  desire  was 
growing  within  him — a  desire  to  beat  upon  the 
floor  and  walls,  to  hammer  and  to  shout. 

To  resist  it,  he  sat  upon  the  floor;  it  was  cold 
and  very  hard.  He  tried  to  lie  down  and  relax 
himself  to  patience.  He  began  to  wonder  how 
long  he  had  been  here.  He  did  not  know  if  it 
was  an  hour  or  a  minute. 

He  tried  talking  to  himself.  A  timidity,  a  dif- 
[68] 


9009 

fidence  overwhelmed  him  as  he  heard  this  voice, 
sounding  strange  to  him.  He  closed  his  lips. 
But  in  a  little  while  he  heard  himself  again 
speaking  aloud,  and  he  was  cursing.  According 
to  the  legends  of  prison  life,  this  is  a  sign  of 
coming  insanity;  so,  crouching  in  the  centre  of 
the  walled-in  darkness,  he  occupied  his  mind  by 
counting  his  copper. 

He  reduced  to  days  his  sentence;  then  to  days 
his  copper;  then  to  days  his  sentence  minus  his 
copper;  then  to  days  his  sentence  minus  his  cop 
per  minus  the  days  already  served.  He  did  this 
many  times,  by  different  processes. 

But  insensibly  he  passed  from  this,  and  a 
vision  came  to  him.  As  he  crouched  here  in  the 
centre  of  this  cubical  compressed  blackness,  he 
saw  suddenly  the  captain's  flat-topped  desk,  and 
the  knife  upon  it.  He  saw  this  sharply — its 
gray  colour,  spotted  with  brown  stain,  its  heavy 
back,  with  the  file-rasp  still  upon  it,  the  keen 
blade,  the  needle-like  point;  he  could  feel  its 
weight,  its  well-balanced  weight,  that  admitted 
of  cracking  a  skull  or  carving  out  a  rib. 

[69] 


9009 

Then  he  saw  the  red-striped  convict  spring 
upon  the  garotter  leap-frog  fashion  and  entwine 
his  legs  about  his  neck  while  the  knife  went  up 
and  down  with  a  pumping  movement.  He  saw 
his  nostrils,  breathing  joy  as  he  stabbed,  stabbed 
again,  stabbed,  stabbed;  his  eyes  blazing  joy. 
And  he  saw  him  lying  on  his  back,  his  legs  still 
entwined,  looking  up  with  his  white  face,  now 
full  of  peace  and  of  satiety 

When,  the  next  morning  after  breakfast,  the 
captain  of  the  yard  saw  9009  emerge  from  the 
dungeon,  he  noted  that  the  convict's  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  and  that  heavy  lines  had  sprung, 
overnight,  from  the  ends  of  the  nostrils  to  the 
corners  of  the  mouth. 


[70] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

"LISTEN!"  A  shock-headed,  square-bodied 
little  safe-cracker,  called  "  Shorty  "  Hayes,  and 
doing  fifty  years,  admonished  9009  in  the  subtle 
language  of  those  who  are  watched. 

The  two  sat  on  a  board,  suspended  by  ropes 
from  the  roof,  far  above  the  ground,  painting 
the  wall.  They  had  been  working  all  day  and 
had  arrived  to  the  space  immediately  below  the 
windows  of  the  office  of  the  captain  of  the  yard. 

"  Shorty  "  did  not  speak  aloud.  He  did  not 
use  his  tongue  at  all.  He  talked  with  his  eyes — 
a  single  sharp  shifting  of  the  eyeballs  and  a 
flash  of  light  from  them,  both  shift  and  light- 
flash  moving  toward  the  window,  slightly  ajar 
just  above  their  heads. 

It  was  Jennings  who  was  talking  within 
the  office.  His  voice,  suddenly,  had  gone  to  a 
lower  key.  "  Things  are  moving,"  he  said  quietly. 

[71] 


9009 

There  was  the  creak  of  an  office-chair  turning 
in  its  socket;  then  the  subdued  but  big  growling 
voice  of  the  captain. 

"  Good.    Will  it  come  through?  " 

The  voice  of  Jennings  came  back  with  metal 
lic  positiveness. 

"  Yes — four  of  them  are  framing.  Inside  of  a 
month  that  fool  Miller  will  be  giving  away  his 
clothes  again  and  telling  his  friends  he's  going 
to  be  paroled.  There'll  be  a  dozen  of  them  in  it 
by  that  time " 

"  Can  we  handle  it?  "  The  captain's  voice  was 
anxious. 

"  Leave  that  to  me.  One  of  the  four  is  my 
man.  How's  the  warden?  " 

"  The  governor  is  just  aching  for  a  chance  to 
get  at  him.  You  work  that,  and  he's  done  for. 
And  there'll  be  something  for  you  and  me " 

Just  then,  the  trusty  in  charge  called  9009  and 
the  safe-cracker  down  for  dinner,  and  9009  heard 
nothing  more.  He  was  not  interested,  anyway. 
He  was  still  keeping  to  himself  with  savage 
determination  and  hugging  his  copper.  In  that 

[72] 


9009 

alone  was  he  interested,  in  that  and  a  subtle 
combat  which  was  going  on  between  himself  and 
the  whole  prison. 

He  had  become — he  saw  this  plainly — the  butt 
of  a  series  of  petty  persecutions  which  he  as 
cribed  to  Jennings.  This  painting  was  one  of 
them.  The  turpentine  made  him  deathly  sick, 
yet  he  was  kept  at  it  for  a  straight  three  weeks. 
He  was  often  given  the  more  loathsome  prison 
work.  At  meals,  if  a  convict  within  ten  places 
from  him  broke  the  rule  by  talking,  it  was  he, 
9009,  who  was  accused  and  punished  by  being 
deprived  of  his  next  meal.  At  the  jute-mill  Jen 
nings  tormented  him  subtly.  He  would  plant 
himself  behind  9009,  boring  into  his  back  with 
his  hard  eyes,  while  the  convict  fought,  under 
these  conditions,  to  keep  his  attention  rigid  upon 
the  machine,  with  its  ceaseless  exactions. 

What  had  happened  was  this.  From  the  first 
Jennings  had  decided  that  9009  was  a  "  bad 
one."  He  had  sowed  this  belief  into  the  mind 
of  the  captain  of  the  yard.  The  captain  had 
passed  it  on  to  the  other  guards.  And  the 

[73] 


9009 

trusties  had  soon  caught  the  hint.  Jennings, 
the  captain,  and  the  guards  were  engaged  in 
"breaking"  9009;  the  trusties,  catching  with 
their  infallible  noses  the  desire  of  their  protec 
tors,  were  ceaselessly  watching  for  9009's  first 
stumble,  counting  up  already  the  Judas  reward 
that  would  come  of  it.  But  9009  did  not  under 
stand  all  this.  He  knew  only,  vaguely,  that  he 
was  being  attacked,  and  that  he  must  not  strike 
back. 

Of  these  persecutions,  depriving  him  of  his 
sunlight  was  the  worst. 

Every  alternating  Sunday,  the  inmates  of  one 
of  the  cell-houses  had  two  hours  of  recreation  in 
the  yard  while  those  of  the  second  cell-house 
were  at  chapel. 

For  two  of  these  alternating  Sundays  it  had 
rained.  When  the  third  came,  9009  was  fam 
ished.  It  was  sunny  in  the  yard;  a  soft  breeze, 
laden  with  a  scent  of  warm,  wet  earth  and  lush 
grass  was  rolling  languidly  over  the  walls;  it 
passed  the  chapel  and  carried  to  the  cell-house 
the  sound  of  women's  voices,  singing.  But  the 

[74] 


9009 

men  in  the  cell-house  did  not  listen.  They 
stood  at  lock-step  in  the  corridor,  their  feet 
shuffling  on  the  concrete  floor.  The  line  was 
moving  very  slowly  toward  the  outer  door;  at 
times  a  tremor  as  of  impatience  passed  along  its 
gray  links. 

Jennings  stood  at  the  door  of  the  cell-house. 
As  each  man  slid  forward  to  him,  he  handed  him 
a  slip  of  paper — his  pass.  Without  this  pass,  no 
convict  could  stay  in  the  yard.  The  sallow 
guard  glanced  coldly  at  each  felon;  occasionally 
his  white-gray  eyes  roved  back  along  the  line. 
Once,  as  they  settled  upon  9009,  they  glinted; 
then  the  blurring  film  crept  back  over  them. 

Finally  9009,  now  the  head  of  the  diminished 
line,  was  standing  at  the  door,  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground,  his  right  hand  held  up  for  the  pass,  and 
there  was  a  weary  hunger  in  his  face. 

"  Well?  "  said  Jennings  sharply. 

"  My  pass,"  said  9009,  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
his  hand  still  held  out. 

"Go  on,"  said  Jennings;  "don't  be  stopping 
the  line." 

[75] 


9009 

"My  pass,"  repeated  9009  doggedly;  "you 
didn't  give  me  no  pass." 

"  You  lie,"  said  Jennings  evenly;  "  how  many 
passes  do  you  want?  " 

9009's  hand  dropped;  then  rose  again  in  mute 
begging  gesture. 

"  Move  on,"  Jennings  ordered. 

The  striped  line  surged  forward,  and  9009, 
forced  through  the  door,  passed  out  into  the  sun 
lit  yard. 

It  was  warm;  the  sunshine  was  a  golden 
downpour;  the  breeze,  rolling  languidly  over  the 
wall,  fell  into  the  yard  heavy  with  the  scent  of 
wet  earth  and  lush  grass;  a  bee,  afloat  upon  it, 
came  buzzing  from  the  outer  world  and  thrice 
circled  9009  with  its  murmur,  like  a  consolatory 
secret.  And  the  earth,  hard-beaten  though  it 
was  by  thousands  of  clumsy  brogans,  was 
springy  under  foot,  elastic  as  steel  and  concrete 
were  not;  and  the  dome  above  was  high  and 
blue,  and  away  up  at  its  apex  was  a  little  white 
cloud.  When  you  looked  up  at  the  little  white 
cloud,  it  seemed  to  recede,  farther  and  farther 

[76] 


9009 

up  and  away;  but  when,  after  deceiving  it  by 
gazing  at  the  ground  for  a  time,  you  looked  up 
at  it  again,  there  it  was,  back  in  the  same  place. 
Vaguely  9009  enjoyed  all  this;  but  all  the  time 
he  was  moving  from  group  to  group,  trying  to 
evade  as  long  as  possible  the  guard  who  had 
begun  already  to  collect  the  passes. 

There  was  noise  in  the  yard,  the  noise  of  men's 
voices  lifted  unrestrained,  like  the  voices  of  boys 
in  a  school-yard.  The  convicts  had  thrown  them 
selves  into  play  with  violence. 

Two  sides  were  busy  in  a  ball  game.  A  ring 
of  stripes-clad  spectators  pressed  close  about 
the  home-plate  where  "  Shorty,"  the  shock- 
headed,  square-bodied  little  safe-cracker,  was 
standing,  swinging  his  bat  in  circles,  bringing 
it  down  upon  the  plate  resoundingly.  He  was 
jeering  the  pitcher,  a  long  pale-faced  sneak-thief 
who,  winding  himself  up  ostentatiously  for  his 
delivery,  looked  in  his  stripes  like  a  snake  up 
right  on  its  tail.  And  behind  this  one  and  to 
the  right,  a  short  wiry  pickpocket  bent  his  body 
and  straightened  it  nervously,  and  rubbed  his 

[77] 


9009 

thin-fingered  hands  together,  watching  the  bat 
ter  with  ferret  eyes.  Behind  the  safe-cracker,  a 
tall,  gaunt  highwayman  named  Miller — he  had 
been  leader  in  several  attempts  to  escape  and 
had  a  mania  for  giving  away  his  clothes  before 
such  breaks — crouched  in  his  red  stripes,  eyes 
gleaming.  Suddenly  the  pitcher's  contorted  body 
unlocked  with  a  snap;  the  ball  sped,  white  in 
the  sunlight;  the  safe-cracker  swung  his  bat 
with  terrific  force,  wildly;  the  ball  thumped  into 
the  broad  mit  of  the  red-striped  highwayman. 
"  Strike  one,"  yelled  the  umpire,  a  stony-faced 
confidence-man.  The  crowd  whooped.  The  safe- 
cracker  spat  in  his  hands,  taking  his  bat  with  a 
new  grip.  The  pickpocket  threw  a  back  hand 
spring. 

In  a  corner,  near  the  stone  building  where 
were  the  condemned  and  solitary  cells,  two  bul 
let-headed  burglars  were  shoving  their  hands 
into  tattered  boxing  gloves;  without  premoni 
tory  fiddling,  they  began  slamming  blows  thick 
and  fast  into  each  other's  faces.  Near  them, 
men  were  pitching  quoits,  using  horseshoes; 

[78] 


9009 

they  capered  wildly  as  the  horseshoes  rose  high 
into  the  air,  and  shouted  after  them  as  if  to 
direct  their  flights. 

All  these  men  played  without  repression,  with 
violence.  And  even  those  who  merely  walked, 
singly  or  in  pairs,  threw  out  their  legs  like 
horses  just  out  of  the  stable.  All  save  a  few  who 
paced  stiffly  with  bowed  heads,  hands  folded  be 
hind  them — they  were  old-timers — and  one  or 
two  who  stood  still  or  moved  only  to  spasms  of 
impulse,  talking  aloud  to  themselves — these  had 
tempted  madness  by  counting  their  days  too 
often  in  the  darkness  of  dungeon  or  drear  of 
"  solitary." 

"  Where's  your  pass?  " 

9009  started.  He  had  forgotten,  watching  the 
others. 

"  I  got  none,"  he  said  sullenly  to  the  guard  at 
his  elbow. 

"  Go  in,  then." 

The  guard  spoke  without  passion  or  resent 
ment,  almost  wearily.  He  waved  his  hand  tow 
ard  the  cell-house.  9009  went  back  to  his  cell. 

[79] 


9009 

He  went  back  to  his  cell  and  sat  down  on  his 
three-legged  stool.  After  a  while,  still  seated, 
he  began  to  slide  the  stool  across  the  steel  floor 
in  little  jumps,  his  eyes,  meanwhile,  turned  up 
ward  attentively.  When  thus,  in  small  tentative 
slides,  he  had  covered  the  few  square  yards  of 
the  cell's  free  area,  he  returned  to  a  point  near 
the  centre,  moved  a  fraction  of  an  inch  forward, 
then  a  still  smaller  fraction  to  the  right,  and 
was  still,  his  big  clasped  hands  hanging  loosely 
between  his  knees,  his  face  turned  upward.  The 
posture  emphasised  the  heaviness  of  his  jaw,  the 
ugly  lines  from  ends  of  nostrils  to  corners  of 
mouth;  but  even  then,  it  was  an  attitude  almost 
of  prayer. 

He  was  gazing,  past  the  bars,  on  and  up 
through  a  little  window  near  the  ceiling  of  the 
cell-house,  at  a  patch  of  sky.  It  was  a  little 
patch,  irregularly  framed  by  the  top  and  right 
side  of  his  cell-door  and  the  sill  and  left  side  of 
the  window,  and  slashed  angularly  by  the  roof 
of  a  near  building;  and  exactly  where  he  sat  it 
showed  a  bit  larger  than  it  did  from  any  other 

[80] 


9009 

place  in  the  cell.  It  was  blue,  a  very  tender  blue; 
when  9009  stared  at  it  hard,  the  faint  taint  in 
the  air  of  the  cell-house,  with  its  added  Sunday 
reek  of  chloride  of  lime,  left  him,  and  he  seemed 
to  breathe  again  that  heavy,  warm  and  sweet 
air  which  was  rolling  over  the  wall,  into  the 
prison  yard.  He  sat  on  the  stool,  back  bent 
(with  his  head  low  he  could  see  more  of  the  blue), 
his  hands  hanging  between  his  knees,  his  face 
turned  upward;  gradually  his  lips  loosened,  his 
heavy  jaw  dropped,  and  in  his  eyes,  looking  up 
in  that  attitude,  almost  of  prayer,  there  came 
slowly  an  expression  of  longing,  of  vague  pa 
tient  longing,  like  a  dog's. 

It  was  very  still  in  the  cell-house.  At  times, 
as  if  from  far  off,  there  came  the  attenuated  tu 
mult  of  the  yard;  in  the  air  was  the  taint,  and 
the  added  Sunday  reek  of  chloride  of  lime.  But 
9009  was  unconscious  of  this.  He  looked.  Bowed 
on  his  seat,  he  looked  up  with  loose  lips  and 
troubled  eyes  at  the  little  patch  of  blue  sky. 
After  a  while  a  film  seemed  to  creep  into  it. 
Gradually  this  deepened  into  a  whitish  opales- 

[81] 


9009 

cence.  It  was  a  cloud;  9009  fancied  it  was  the 
cloud  that  he  had  seen  earlier  in  the  day,  when 
in  the  yard.  He  cast  his  eyes  down  to  play  with 
it  again,  to  play  the  receding  and  approaching 
game  of  hide-and-go-seek.  When  he  looked  up 
again,  the  cloud  was  gone.  It  had  been  a  very 
little  cloud.  And  the  blue  was  again  there,  the 
fresh  tender  blue. 

A  step  sounded  along  the  corridor;  a  shadow 
cut  off  the  light;  9009  dropped  his  eyes  levelly 
across  the  bars.  Jennings  was  standing  there, 
looking  at  him. 

He  looked  at  9009  curiously,  a  long  moment, 
then  looked  up  at  the  window,  far  above.  He 
glanced  back  into  the  cell,  then,  turning  his 
back,  shifted  his  position  a  foot.  The  patch  of 
blue  disappeared. 

9009  remained  where  he  was;  his  lips  were  no 
longer  loose,  his  jaw  did  not  droop,  and  the  ex 
pression  in  his  eyes  was  not  of  longing.  The 
guard  stood  there,  motionless;  his  back,  square 
and  brutal,  rose  like  a  wall  before  the  cell-door. 

For  a  long  time  they  were  thus.  Occasionally, 
[82] 


9009 

from  the  yard  outside,  there  came  whoops,  cries 
of  animal  enjoyment;  and  again  in  the  air  was 
the  taint,  the  taint  from  many  cages  near  by. 
The  afternoon  waned,  dusk  came,  the  convicts 
returned;  and  then  Jennings  spoke. 

"  I'm  going  to  break  you,"  he  said;  then  turned 
on  his  heel  and  strode  off  down  the  corridor. 

On  the  next  Sunday,  9009  was  again  denied 
his  pass,  and  the  window,  which  had  been  white 
washed  during  the  week,  was  closed,  cutting  off 
the  patch  of  blue.  After  that,  9009  ceased  to  ask 
for  his  pass;  he  spent  his  Sunday  afternoons  on 
his  back,  staring  up  at  the  bunk  above  him. 

Sometimes  his  cell-mate,  the  little  black-faced, 
spike-haired  man,  returning  from  the  yard 
turned  upon  him  his  inflamed  eyes  with  a  strange 
look,  almost  of  wistfulness,  as  though  he  wanted 
to  speak;  but  9009  mastered  a  desire  to  break 
their  silence,  and  lay  without  a  word,  staring 
upward  sullenly. 


[83] 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

9009  gripped  two  bars  of  his  cell-door  and 
shook  the  steel  till  the  rattle  went  resounding 
down  the  corridor  in  harsh  crescendo. 

"  Here — you  up  there  in  17,  be  quiet  or  I'll 
throw  you  into  the  dungeon!" 

The  voice  of  the  night  guard  came  up  through 
the  shadows;  it  had  the  tone  of  one  who  is  irri 
tated  by  a  common  annoyance.  9009  stepped 
back  quickly  and  threw  himself  on  his  bunk. 
"  What's  got  into  me,  anyhow?  "  he  whispered 
up  to  his  cell-mate,  in  the  bunk  above  him. 

They  had  arrived  by  this  time  to  a  certain 
degree  of  confidence.  This  had  begun  one  day 
when,  as  9009  was  returning,  grim  and  sullen, 
from  his  third  short  term  in  the  dungeon,  the 
little  black-faced,  spike-haired  man  had  drawn 
from  his  blouse  two  pieces  of  bread  that  he  had 
stolen  from  the  dining-room  and  had  handed 
them  to  him  without  a  word. 

[84] 


9009 

"  What's  got  into  me,"  whispered  9009 ;  "  am 
I  going  nuts?  " 

"  I  used  to  get  that  way,"  wheezed  back  the 
little  man  from  the  darkness  above;  "lots  does 
it;  it's  spells  conies  on  you." 

9009  stretched  himself  out  flatly  and  took  hold 
of  the  sides  of  his  bunk.  He  was  afraid.  He  had 
caught  himself  at  this  sort  of  thing  before;  he 
feared  this  new  impulse  which  crouched  within 
him  now  always,  hiding  stealthily  for  days  to 
spring  out  without  warning  and  contort  his  sin 
ews  to  action.  Two  or  three  times  it  had  roused 
within  him  suddenly  as,  marching  in  the  lock- 
step  line,  he  stole  a  look  up  at  the  guard  on  the 
wall,  pacing  with  his  gun  loose  in  hand,  like  a 
hunter;  it  had  bidden  him  rush  for  the  wall. 
Twice  in  the  jute-mill,  with  Jennings  behind  him, 
it  had  told  him  to  turn  upon  the  sallow  guard — 
and  so  loudly,  so  commandingly  had  it  ordered, 
that  he  had  almost  obeyed  before  taking  other 
thought.  And  this  time,  when  at  the  sound  of 
the  guard's  voice  he  had  found  himself  with 
hands  knotted  about  his  bars,  he  knew  that 

[85] 


9009 

again  the  thing  had  taken  possession  of  him, 
convulsing  his  being. 

It  came  always  strongest  after  a  period  of 
strange  half-delicious  insomnia,  during  which 
his  mind  left  him  and  wandered  through  the 
world  outside  the  walls.  These  periods  came 
often,  and  lasted  sometimes  as  long  as  a  week. 
Every  night,  then,  leaving  his  body  tossing,  hot, 
on  the  narrow  bunk  in  the  steel  cell,  his  mind, 
leaping  the  walls,  flitted  from  place  to  place  in 
the  wide  open  world.  Dawn  saw  him  always 
haggard  after  one  of  these  nights  of  semi-free 
dom,  and  within  him  the  impulse  would  be 
crouching,  stealthy,  waiting  to  trap  him  to  ac 
tion.  He  watched  against  it  incessantly,  but  a 
huge  irritation  vibrated  along  his  nerves. 

The  whole  atmosphere  about  him,  anyhow, 
now  held  a  suppressed  excitement.  He  had  felt 
it  at  first  as  an  indefinable  thing,  a  vague  rest 
lessness.  Then  he  had  become  conscious  of  a 
subtle  change  in  the  routine  about  him.  After 
several  days  of  close  observation,  he  had  been 
able  to  place  this. 

[86] 


9009 

Every  morning,  now,  at  cleaning  time,  as 
striped  men  with  brooms  and  creaking  buckets 
passed  along  the  corridors  or  massed  by  the  sinks, 
gibing  cruelly  or  sliding  lipless  words  from  dead 
faces,  four  convicts  would  gather,  heads  close 
together,  for  a  few  moments.  Each  morning  the 
same  four,  in  the  same  apparently  accidental 
manner,  came  together  near  the  sinks  and  con 
ferred  for  a  few  moments,  saying  little,  and  most 
of  that  with  their  lid-hidden  eyes,  swiftly. 

9009  had  marked  these  four  men.  One  was  Mil 
ler,  the  red-striped  highwayman  who  was  catch 
ing  in  the  ball  game  the  day  that  9009  had  been 
denied  his  pass.  He  was  a  big,  gaunt  man  with  a 
neck  made  crooked  by  a  gunshot  scar;  he  had 
made  several  attempts  at  escape  in  the  past,  and 
had  a  mania  for  giving  away  his  clothes  before 
each  of  such  breaks.  The  second  man  was  the 
ferret-eyed,  wiry  pickpocket  who  had  played 
short-stop;  the  third  was  one  of  the  bullet-headed 
burglars  who  had  been  boxing,  and  the  fourth 
was  Nichols,  the  stony-faced  confidence-man 
who  had  umpired  the  game. 

[87] 


9009 

When  these  four  talked,  their  speech  was  dif 
ferent  from  that  of  the  others.  It  held  purpose. 
When  no  guard  was  near,  it  was  tense  and  hur 
ried;  and  when  guard,  trusty,  or  ordinary  con 
vict  approached,  it  sprang  up  into  spasms  of  ar 
gument  or  rough  laughter.  The  arguments  were 
too  vibrant  and  the  laughter  was  too  loud.  In 
these  stolen  conferences  Nichols,  the  stony-faced 
confidence-man,  seemed  to  be  leader. 

"  Here,  you  up  in  17;  try  that  again  and  I 
chuck  you  into  the  dungeon!" 

The  voice  of  the  guard  came  up  through  the 
shadow,  and  9009  again  found  himself  with 
hands  knotted  about  bars,  while  down  the  corri 
dor  came  still  the  echo  of  rattling  steel. 

He  threw  himself  back  upon  his  bunk,  and 
stretched  himself  flat,  taking  hold  of  the  rods 
at  the  sides.  "  Pard,"  he  whispered,  "  I  am  going 
nuts." 

"  It's  just  spells,"  came  back  the  pacifying 
wheeze  from  above;  "just  spells;  we  all  have 
'em." 

9009  lay  on  his  back,  motionless,  staring  up 
[88] 


9009 

into  the  darkness.  Above  him,  at  regular  inter 
vals,  drearily,  there  sounded  a  dry  weary  cough 
ing. 

"  What  makes  ye  cough  so — so  hard  and  dry- 
like,"  he  asked  at  length.  He  had  asked  this 
several  times  before,  and  knew;  but  now,  sud 
denly,  he  wanted  to  talk. 

"  'Tis  the  emery  dust  a-cuttin'  away  me  lungs," 
the  answer  returned  from  the  darkness. 

"  It's  worse  every  day,"  went  on  9009. 

There  was  a  silence;  then  words  floated  down 
again.  "  It  keeps  ye  awake  nights,"  said  the  in 
visible  cell-mate  meekly. 

"  I  guess  yes " — 9009  kicked  at  his  blanket 
viciously. 

They  were  quiet  for  a  time.  A  guard  hissed 
by  in  his  rubber  shoes  along  the  gangway. 

"  You  ought  to  kick,"  9009  began  again.  "  I'd 
roar  till  somebody  heard." 

Two  words  fell  back  through  the  darkness. 
"  No  use." 

"  Why  in  hell  don't  you  go  to  the  hospital?  " 

"  Can't." 

[89] 


9009 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time.  The  dark 
ness  lay  upon  them  like  a  heavy  vapour,  lay  upon 
the  strong  man  in  the  lower  bunk,  tortured  with 
twitching  nerves,  upon  the  little  man  above, 
nauseated  with  weakness;  it  lay  upon  them 
heavy,  tainted,  without  mercy,  turned  from  the 
sweet  poppy-consoler  to  a  hostile,  sullen  power 
keeping  them  awake  to  their  torments.  And  the 
little  man  began  to  cough,  a  long  dreary  fit  that 
seemed  to  have  no  end. 

When  it  did  terminate,  9009  let  out  a  big 
breath;  he  found  that  he  had  held  it  all  through 
the  time  that  his  mate  was  coughing.  He  lay 
silent  a  while  longer,  then,  hesitatingly,  "C'n  I 
— help  you — anyways?  "  he  asked. 

The  response  was  slow  in  coming;  then  it 
dropped  down  softly.  "  Ye're  the  first  man  as 
ever  asked  me  that  in  this  hell-hole,"  said  the 
little  cell-mate. 

They  were  quiet  again,  long.  9009  had  thrown 
off  his  blanket  and  lay  very  still.  But  the 
darkness  now  was  less  heavy  upon  him;  be 
tween  the  two  bunks  it  seemed  to  have  become 

[90] 


9009 

less  opaque,  to  have  parted  a  bit  to  let  through 
a  softness. 

"  Ye  can't  help  me,"  began  the  voice  above 
again;  "ye  can't;  nobody  can't.  I'm  up  against 
the  push.  It's  this  way: 

"  I  left  this  hell-hole  once,  left  it  on  parole, 
and  I  got  throwed  back.  I  got  throwed  back. 
Fer  why?  Fer  why  did  I  get  throwed  back? 
What  do  ye  think?  Fer  stealin'?  Fer  killin'? 
Fer  snuffing  a  gofe?  Fer  cookin'  a  bull?  Guess 
why.  Fer  why  did  I  get  throwed  back?  " 

The  voice  had  risen  clear  now,  pitched  thin 
like  a  penny  whistle;  the  questions  dropped 
upon  9009  fiercely  insistent.  He  lay  silent,  wait 
ing,  and  at  length  the  questioner,  whom  he  could 
feel  leaning  out  of  his  bunk  above  him,  answered 
himself: 

"  I  got  throwed  back  in  this  hell-hole,"  he  said, 
"  fer  marrying.  Yes,"  he  repeated  drearily;  "  fer 
marrying. 

"  Ye  see,  I  was  doing  ten  years  " — the  words, 
long  repressed,  now  came  flowing  one  upon  the 
other  tumultuously — "  I  was  doing  my  ten  spot 

[91] 


9009 

and  had  five  done  already;  and  I  got  hold  of  re 
ligion.  Oh,  'twas  on  the  square  all  right.  I 
know  now  it's  all  rot,  but  I  was  on  the  square 
then.  I  was  psalm-singing,  and  they  got  me 
paroled 

"  It's  a  fine  thing,  that  parole  business.  If 
ye've  got  a  bad  friend  in  the  world,  he's  got  ye. 
Every  man  has  ye  foul.  Did  you  ever  read  the 
rules  for  paroled  cons?  Ye  can't  breathe  the 
wrong  way,  or  back  ye  go.  Ye're  a  con  just  the 
same.  And  the  whole  outside  is  yer  prison.  And 
every  citizen  is  a  stool-pigeon  a-watching  to  tell 
on  ye. 

"  Well,  I'd  made  bad  friends  in  the  pen.  Wan 
was  yer  friend  Jennings  (9009,  in  the  darkness 
below,  exploded  in  an  oath);  t'other  was  that 
cat-faced  trusty  of  the  captain's  office,  Wilson 
(9009  swore  again  and  spit  out  of  his  bunk).  The 
two  was  just  starting  the  dope  ring — selling 
opium  to  the  cons.  I  was  a  trusty,  a-tending  the 
cells.  They  needed  the  cell-tenders  to  peddle  the 
dope  to  the  cons,  an'  they  thought  I  was  just  the 
man  fer  that  because  I  was  playing  smooth  in 

[92] 


9009 

the  chapel.  But  I  was  on  the  square  about  that 
chapel  business.  I  wouldn't  stand  fer  their 
graft.  And  so  they  tried  to  job  me,  but  my 
friends  on  the  outside  who'd  got  me  religion, 
they  beat  them  to  it  and  got  me  paroled. 

"Well,  I  learned  all  about  that  parole  snap 
in  short  order.  The  first  month  I  was  in  the  city 
I  got  pinched  six  times  by  the  perlice  fer  jobs 
I  didn't  know  nothing  about.  Every  time  a  bull 
or  detective  passed  me,  he  pinched  me  fer  luck; 
and  between  them  and  their  stool-pigeons  I  was 
ready  to  jump  out  of  the  State.  But  then  I  got 
to  the  Whosoever  Will  Mission  where  they  take 
in  ex-cons.  They  treated  me  good,  and  I  lived 
wit'  them.  And  then 

"  I  met  a  girl  there." 

9009  thought  of  Nell,  and  swiftly,  as  usual,  he 
put  the  thought  from  him. 

"  I  met  a  girl  there.  She'd  been  on  the  town 
and  turned  straight.  Ye  know  that  kind;  if  they 
turn  square,  and  it's  on  the  square  wit'  them, 
they're  so  straight  all  hell  couldn't  touch  them. 
Well,  that  was  her.  A  slip  of  a  girl,  and  she  was 

[93] 


9009 

nursing  and  working  in  the  mission.  They  had 
a  sort  of  hospital  for  broken-down  bums,  and 
she  was  taking  care  of  them  old  whiskey-soaks. 
Well,  we  got  stuck,  and  we  didn't  give  a  cuss 
for  them  parole  rules,  and  the  mission  people, 
they  thought  it'd  be  all  right,  and  we  got  mar 
ried 

"  A  con  can't  get  married,  and  a  con  on  parole 
is  a  con.  Jennings,  he  came  down  to  the  city  on 
his  vacation  and  seen  the  marriage  license  in  the 
paper.  We'd  been  married  wan  day  when  they 
pinched  me. 

"  They  throwed  me  back  here  and  put  me  in 
the  foundry  at  the  emery  wheel,  and  the  emery 
wheel  is  a-cuttin'  away  me  lungs.  Jennings,  he 
fixes  the  jobs;  he's  a-gettin'  back  at  me." 

The  voice  in  the  darkness  above  stopped.  A 
long  dreary  fit  of  coughing  followed.  9009,  ly 
ing  on  his  back,  straining  his  eyes  upward, 
thought  of  Nell,  and  put  the  thought  out  of  his 
mind.  "  What's  become  of  her,"  he  asked  curi 
ously;  "  of  the  girl  you  got  stuck  on  and  mar 
ried?" 

[94] 


9009 

"  Oh,"  came  back  the  cell-mate's  voice,  and  all 
the  shrill  strength  was  out  of  it,  and  it  fell  down 
heavy  as  lead;  "oh,  she's  cut  out  religion — gone 
back  to  hell!" 

They  sank  into  a  final  silence;  again  the  dark 
ness  drew  about  them,  crushing,  tainted,  with 
out  mercy.  Above,  the  little  man  coughed, 
drearily,  endlessly;  below,  the  strong  man 
twitched  to  the  torture  of  his  nerves;  and  to 
their  ears,  uncouth  and  fantastic,  there  came  the 
breathing  of  the  prison. 

And  after  a  while,  like  a  kindness,  sleep  en 
wrapped  the  upper  bunk.  And  in  the  lower, 
9009  felt  slowly  his  mind  leave  his  tossing  body 
to  wander  over  walls,  in  the  free  wide  world. 
He  lay  there,  in  semi-ecstatic  insomnia;  his 
senses  were  drugged.  Suddenly  they  awoke  to  a 
tapping. 

They  awoke  and  were  immediately  alert. 
From  a  cell  down  the  corridor,  there  came  a 
tapping,  a  soft  tapping,  faint  but  insistent: 

"  Tap-tap  (pause) ;  tap-tap  (long  pause) ;  tap- 
tap-tap-tap-tap  (pause);  tap  (long  pause);  tap- 

[95] 


9009 

tap-tap  (pause);  tap-tap-tap-tap  (long  pause); 
tap-tap  " — it  stopped. 

And  immediately,  from  another  cell,  alert, 
tense  and  affirmative:  "Tap-tap;  tap-tap;  tap- 
tap." 

Then,  again  from  the  first  cell,  very  softly,  but 
with  insistence,  the  first  call :  "  tap-tap  (pause) ; 
tap-tap  (long  pause) ;  tap-tap-tap-tap-tap  (pause) ; 
tap  (long  pause);  tap-tap-tap  (pause);  tap-tap- 
tap  (long  pause);  tap-tap." 

And  from  far  down  the  corridor,  a  third  cell 
spoke;  decisively,  almost  ragefully:  "tap-tap; 
tap-tap;  tap-tap." 

"Tap-tap,"  began  the  first  cell  again;  "tap- 
tap;  tap-tap-tap-tap-tap" 

It  broke  off  short;  to  9009  came  again  the 
prison's  uncouth  breathing;  then,  shadowy,  a 
guard  passed  along  the  cells,  hissing  in  his  rub 
ber  shoes. 

The  tapping  was  not  resumed.  It  was  some 
alphabetical  communication,  9009  knew;  he  had 
heard  of  such  a  thing.  Lying  on  his  back  he 
thought  of  the  four  men — of  Miller,  the  gaunt 

[96] 


9009 

highwayman,  of  the  pickpocket,  the  bullet- 
headed  burglar,  the  stony-faced  confidence-man 
— who  met  every  morning  by  the  sinks  and 
talked  lipless  words;  and  after  a  while  he  felt 
himself  sinking  into  a  blessed  somnolence. 
"  Here,  you  up  there  in  17;  stop  it,  stop  it! " 
And  again  9009  awoke  to  find  himself  up 
against  his  cell-door,  his  hands  knotted  about 
the  vibrating  bars;  and  from  the  depths  of  the 
corridor  there  came  to  him  the  harsh  echo  of 
rattling  steel. 

This  time  the  little  window  near  the  roof  was 
pale  with  dawn. 


[97] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

AT  the  crash  of  the  morning  gong,  9009,  hag 
gard  with  the  night,  stepped  out  of  his  cell,  now 
unlocked  for  him.  One  by  one  the  other  cells 
were  opening,  and  the  convicts  were  pouring  out 
upon  the  gangway,  holding  brooms  and  creaking 
buckets.  As  he  stood  by  the  sinks,  9009  watched 
the  convicts  narrowly;  but  this  morning,  Miller, 
the  pickpocket,  the  burglar,  and  Nichols,  the 
confidence-man,  did  not  meet  as  usual.  They  re 
mained  apart,  each  doing  his  work  at  a  different 
time. 

But  when,  to  the  second  clang  of  the  gong, 
9009  stood  with  his  mate  in  front  of  his  cell  to 
take  his  place  in  the  line,  now  silently  forming 
for  its  march  to  the  dining-hall,  he  felt  suddenly 
his  heart  leap  up  into  his  throat.  A  few  places 
ahead  of  him  were  Miller,  the  pickpocket,  the 
burglar,  and  the  confidence-man.  They  did  not 

[98] 


9009 

belong  there,  and  they  did  not  belong  together. 
Each  convict  was  supposed  to  take  his  place  in 
line  by  standing  in  front  of  his  own  cell;  their 
proper  places  were  somewhere  near  the  middle 
of  the  line,  and  apart  from  each  other.  But  here 
they  now  stood  before  9009,  close  to  the  head  of 
the  line,  and  together — Miller,  the  pickpocket, 
the  burglar,  and  Nichols,  in  this  order.  And 
their  heads  were  bowed  toward  the  floor  in  in 
voluntary  attitudes  of  deprecation;  and  from 
their  faces  oozed  a  slanting  expression  that  re 
called  to  9009  the  red-striped  convict  of  the  jute- 
mill  waiting  at  his  loom  for  the  garotter. 

The  guard  in  charge — a  grizzled  old  blue-eyed 
fellow  who  had  lived  most  of  his  life  in  prison- 
wearily  saw  the  line  formed,  then  shuffling  on 
his  rheumatic  legs  to  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the 
corridor,  he  opened  it,  and  the  line  began  to 
flow  slowly  through  it  into  the  outer  corridor. 
Leaning  against  the  wall,  he  let  it  crawl  by  till 
its  head  was  halfway  down  the  long,  narrow 
way,  then  walked  on  along  its  side,  briskly,  to 
intercept  it  at  the  second  door,  a  steel-barred 

[99] 


9009 

gate.  There  he  would  stand  till  the  line  was 
well  massed,  and  then,  unlocking,  would  let  it 
crawl  out  into  the  yard,  beneath  the  shadow  of 
the  wall.  9009  watched  him  as  he  went  along 
the  line  with  forced  briskness,  upon  legs  drag 
ging  a  bit  with  the  prison  rheumatism. 

But  he  never  reached  the  door.  Passing  along 
the  line,  he  stopped  suddenly  with  a  swift  look 
of  surprise;  he  had  noted  Miller,  the  pickpocket, 
the  burglar,  and  the  confidence-man  together 
there  near  the  head,  out  of  their  places.  The 
look  of  surprise  flowed  instantly  into  one  of 
suspicion — then  his  blue  eyes  gleamed  bravely 
as  he  turned,  at  bay.  Ked-striped  Miller  had 
rushed  upon  him. 

The  lank  highwayman's  arms  shot  out,  and 
his  fingers,  working,  clutched  for  the  guard's 
throat;  but  the  old  man,  stepping  back  toward 
the  wall,  struck  as  he  came,  full  and  fair  upon 
the  snarling  mouth.  For  a  flash  the  guard  was 
clear;  then  the  pickpocket  glided  out  of  the  line. 

The  lithe  little  felon  was  half-doubled,  his  fer 
ret  face  a-twitch  with  fierce  excitement;  he 

[100] 


90O9 

swerved  to  the  left,  past  Miller,  and  around  the 
side  of  the  guard  as  the  latter  struck  out  for 
the  second  time.  He  threw  out  his  right  arm 
and  at  the  same  time  raised  his  right  knee.  The 
arm  whipped  around  the  guard's  neck  like  a 
snake;  the  knee  thumped  against  the  small  of 
the  guard's  back.  The  gray  head  snapped  back 
ward,  the  eyes  bulging;  for  the  fraction  of  a 
second  the  body  arched  itself,  still  up,  then 
broke  and  slapped  the  floor. 

Two  trusties  were  coming  on  the  run;  the 
burglar,  still  in  line,  pivoted  like  a  mad  top  on 
one  heel,  his  right  leg  held  out  horizontally; 
there  was  a  sickening  thud,  and  the  first  trusty 
crumpled  with  a  gasping  hiccough.  The  bur 
glar's  right  hand  went  to  his  trouser  band,  then 
flashed  up — and  the  second  trusty  threw  him 
self  face  down  upon  the  floor.  A  gasp  went 
through  the  petrified  line;  the  burglar  held  in 
his  right  hand  a  heavy  black  revolver.  Miller's 
hand  went  to  his  waist  band  in  a  swift  fumble; 
it  rose;  it  also  held  a  heavy  black  revolver.  Then 
the  line  dissolved  in  a  chaos  of  fleeing  convicts. 

[101] 


9009 

They  avalanched  past  9009  with  pounding  feet, 
as  he  stood,  rooted,  on  the  threshold  of  the  door 
between  the  two  corridors;  and  glancing  over 
his  shoulder  he  saw  them  pop  into  their  cells 
like  rabbits  into  their  holes.  But  three  of  the 
convicts,  besides  Miller,  the  pickpocket,  the  bur 
glar,  and  the  confidence-man  had  stayed;  and 
now  these  three,  like  wild  beasts,  were  hurling 
themselves  against  the  bars  of  the  outer  gate. 
Miller  sprang  upon  the  guard,  lying  on  the  con 
crete  floor,  still  entwined  by  the  pickpocket.  He 
raised  his  heavy  revolver  and  he  struck  the  gray 
head  once,  twice,  thrice — and  stupidly  9009 
noted  that  the  blows  thudded  not  as  the  re 
volver  fell,  but  as  it  rose.  A  red  patch,  as 
if  oozing  out  of  the  pores,  masked  the  guard's 
face  slowly.  The  pickpocket,  twitching  as  a 
fox-terrier  above  a  squirrel  hole,  was  fumbling 
madly  about  the  limp  blue  heap.  Suddenly  his 
hand  rose,  triumphant,  holding  a  great  steel  key. 
He  leaped  to  his  feet  and,  bent  low,  slid  like  a 
streak  of  fire  to  the  outer  door.  Miller  followed 
him.  The  burglar  remained  over  the  two  pros- 

[102] 


9009 

irate  trusties,  swinging  his  revolver  from  side 
to  side.  The  confidence-man,  tiptoeing  back 
ward,  was  coming  slowly  toward  9009. 

He  was  crouching  in  the  doorway  between  the 
two  corridors,  face  forward,  his  sinews  aching 
with  the  contagion  of  action;  but  his  big  knotted 
hands  were  pressed  hard,  white-knuckled,  upon 
the  sides  of  the  doorway,  and  "the  copper,  the 
copper,"  he  was  murmuring.  A  shout  came  to 
him  from  behind.  He  threw  a  glance  over  his 
shoulder;  he  had  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  his  cell 
mate's  black  face  peering  at  him  out  of  his  cell 
with  a  shocked  expression;  and,  further  down, 
Shorty  Hayes,  the  shock-headed  little  safe- 
cracker,  was  also  looking  at  him  out  of  his  cell, 
his  face  all  a-gape  with  a  queer  sneering  laugh 
ter.  His  eyes  plunged  ahead  again,  into  the 
outer  corridor.  Nichols  was  slowly  nearing  him, 
still  walking  backward,  on  tiptoe.  Suddenly  his 
hand  rose;  a  shot  cracked  close;  a  hot  spark  of 
powder  stung  9009's  cheek;  the  burglar  seemed 
to  sink  out  of  sight — and  the  confidence-man, 
bending,  passed  beneath  9009's  outstretched 

[103] 


9009 

arms  and  ran  into  the  inner  corridor,  holding 
a  weapon  that  smoked.  Through  the  slight  haze 
9009  still  peered  forward.  He  could  see  the  bur 
glar  again  now,  sprawled  upon  the  floor,  kick 
ing  his  striped  legs  grotesquely.  The  three  con 
victs  had  ceased  tearing  at  the  gate;  they  were 
crouching  now  at  the  foot  of  its  bars,  all  a-twitch, 
while  Miller  and  the  pickpocket  bent  at  the  lock, 
muttering  horrible  curses.  The  red-striped  high 
wayman  glanced  over  his  shoulder;  his  lips 
drawn  back,  showed  a  row  of  long,  yellow  teeth. 
A  clang  of  working  lock  resounded.  The  three 
at  the  foot  of  the  bars  writhed  in  an  agony  of 
impatience.  9009,  without  knowing  it,  was  mov 
ing  down  the  corridor  now,  stalking,  bent  low, 
slowly,  step  by  step,  and  his  outspread  hands 
slid  along  the  walls  at  either  side. 

A  hard  little  paw  fell  upon  his  left  hand;  a 
voice  sounded  in  his  ear:  "Come  back;  come 
back,"  it  said.  He  turned.  It  was  his  cell-mate; 
he  was  looking  up  at  him  humbly,  beseechingly, 
out  of  his  inflamed  eyes,  with  their  red-drooping 
lower  lids.  The  lock  clanged  again;  9009  turned 

[104] 


9009 

with  a  spasm  to  the  corridor.  At  its  end,  the 
door  swung  open;  the  five  felons  shot  through 
it;  9009  saw  their  galloping  backs  rise  and  fall 
as  those  of  jockeys  at  a  race 

Then  he  straightened  to  his  full  height,  swung 
his  right  arm  across  his  cell-mate's  face,  and  with 
the  roar  of  a  bull,  charged  down  the  corridor. 

Eight  away  he  had  to  leap.  He  had  to  leap 
the  gray-haired  guard,  looking  upward  with  his 
scarlet-masked  face;  to  leap  the  burglar,  still 
gesticulating  jerkily  with  his  long-striped  legs; 
a  trusty,  doubled  up,  coughing;  another,  para 
lyzed  with  fear.  He  leaped  like  a  lean  grey 
hound,  he  sped  through  the  outer  door,  a  ray  of 
sun  struck  him  hot  on  the  cheek,  he  whipped 
around  the  corner  into  the  wall-bound  yard,  he 
took  three  great  strides — and  stopped,  facing 
six  black  disks. 

They  were  gazing  at  him,  round,  swinging 
slowly  from  side  to  side,  like  the  eyes  of  oxen, 
forty  feet  away,  in  a  half  circle  converged  upon 
him.  After  a  while,  behind  the  six  black  disks, 
he  saw  six  dull-gleaming  rifle-barrels,  then  be- 

[105] 


9009 

hind  the  six  dull-gleaming  rifle-barrels,  six 
brown  stocks,  then  besides  each  stock,  pressed 
close,  a  face,  set,  stone-like,  and  an  eye,  like  a 
slit. 

He  stood  there,  with  drooping  jaw,  his  arms 
limp  along  his  sides,  while  six  blue-clad  guards, 
each  silent  as  a  carven  thing,  aimed  carefully  at 
his  breast,  each  with  his  index-finger  upon  his 
rifle-trigger. 


[106] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

9009  waited  to  be  shot,  staring  dully  at  the 
rifle-muzzles,  then  at  the  other  things  about  him. 
His  jaw  drooped  so  that  his  mouth  was  half 
open,  and  his  eyes  were  wide.  He  panted.  De 
tails  came  to  him  slowly. 

Six  guards,  immobile,  aiming  their  rifles  at 
him. 

Between  him  and  the  guards,  two  striped  hud 
dles,  like  wound  snakes  upon  the  beaten  earth 
of  the  earth.  A  limp  hand  drooping  loosely 
from  the  nearest  huddle,  a  white  face  upturned, 
very  still,  a  flash  of  yellow  teeth  between  drawn 
lips — this  was  Miller.  The  other — he  could  not 
tell  who  the  other  was. 

Off  to  one  side,  three  more  guards;  in  front  of 
each,  a  convict;  the  guards  holding  drawn  re 
volvers,  each  muzzle  against  the  belly  of  one 
of  the  convicts.  In  the  centre  of  this  group, 

[107] 


9009 

breathing  hard,  a-snarl,  the  wiry  little  pick 
pocket. 

Beyond,  the  gray  high  wall;  and  upon  it,  pac 
ing  slowly  against  a  very  blue  sky,  another 
guard,  holding  a  rifle,  loosely,  like  a  hunter. 

Six  guards  holding  their  rifles  at  him;  three 
more  holding  drawn  revolvers  against  three 
striped  convicts;  another  guard  on  the  wall — 
9009's  eyes  suddenly  narrowed  to  slits. 

A  resonant  clash  of  steel  upon  steel  broke  the 
panting  silence.  The  cell-house  door  had  been 
closed.  Again  a  metallic  clang:  the  inner  door 
had  been  shut.  Then,  muffled,  a  succession  of 
dull  slams,  close  one  upon  the  other,  that  merged 
into  a  subdued  roll  as  of  thunder.  The  convicts 
within  the  cell-house  were  being  locked  up  in 
their  cells. 

The  six  rifle-muzzles  fell  toward  the  ground; 
a  footstep  crunched  behind;  9009  turned.  It  was 
Jennings. 

The  sallow  face  was  heavy,  expressionless; 
and  the  gray  eyes  were  without  light.  One 
heavy  hand,  extending,  grasped  9009's  shoulder; 

[108] 


9009 

the  other  explored  his  garments  one  after  the 
other.  "All  right,"  said  Jennings;  "nothing  on 
him."  He  turned  his  eyes  upon  9009.  "  Thought 
you'd  lam  out,  eh?  "  he  said  with  the  slightest 
sneer. 

But  9009  did  not  answer.  He  was  stupefied. 
And  when  Jennings  ordered  him  come,  he  fol 
lowed  at  a  shambling  gait,  dazed,  to  the  dun 
geon. 

He  sat  there  for  several  hours,  on  the  steel 
floor,  in  the  blackness,  his  hands  hanging  loose 
between  his  drawn-up  knees.  Gradually,  out  of 
the  whirl  of  his  mind,  two  pictures  emerged.  He 
saw  Nichols,  the  confidence-man,  walking  slowly 
backward  toward  the  inner  corridor;  he  saw  him 
shoot  the  burglar  and  run  to  his  cell;  he  did 
not  understand  that.  Then  he  saw  himself 
bounding  out  into  the  yard — and  stopping  before 
six  rifles;  he  did  not  understand  that.  His  brain, 
anyway,  was  making  but  dull  efforts  to  under 
stand.  All  it  did  was  this:  it  presented  to  him 
the  two  pictures,  mechanically,  passionlessly,  as 
for  inspection — the  stony-faced  confidence-man 

[109] 


9009 

shooting  the  burglar  from  behind;  the  guards 
waiting  outside  to  catch  him  as  he  came.  He 
looked  at  these  two  pictures,  stupid;  he  could 
not  understand  them. 

He  emerged  from  the  dungeon  at  noon  and 
was  taken,  blinking,  into  the  sunny  yard.  Here 
a  theatrical  scene  had  been  carefully  arranged. 

At  a  point  midway  between  the  door  of  the 
dining-hall  and  the  gates  of  the  jute-mill  lane, 
close  to  the  stone-like  track  made  by  the  thrice- 
daily  march  of  the  lock-step  line,  two  deal  tables 
had  been  placed  side  by  side.  And  upon  these 
tables,  the  three  convicts  killed  in  the  break  had 
been  laid. 

They  had  been  dumped,  not  laid,  dumped  in 
their  last  attitudes,  now  frozen  to  rigidity.  They 
sprawled  in  their  stripes,  ignoble  with  blood  and 
earth,  with  limbs  doubled  under  them  or  spread 
out,  contorted,  their  faces,  gray-white  where 
they  showed  between  bruise  and  clot,  staring  up 
ward  with  glazed  eyes  upon  which  grains  of 
dust  lay  without  causing  a  blink.  Miller  leered, 
his  long  teeth  showing  yellow;  the  burglar's 

[110] 


9009 

heavy  jaw  had  fallen  loosely  upon  his  heavy 
throat,  without  hiding  a  black  spot  which  spread 
down  to  the  waist,  coagulating  the  stripes;  the 
third  man  lay  arms  spread  as  if  crucified;  he 
was  a  mere  boy,  and  his  face  was  serene. 

"Look,  you  fellows,  look!" 

The  voice  of  the  captain,  growling,  was  an 
swered  by  the  movement  of  the  guards,  pushing 
9009,  the  pickpocket,  and  the  other  two  men  of 
the  break  closer  to  the  tables.  9009  looked  upon 
the  heap.  Miller  leered  at  him  with  his  yellow 
teeth;  the  burglar  stared  stupidly,  with  dropped 
jaw;  the  boy  gazed  upward  with  calm  eyes,  his 
mouth  curved  almost  in  a  smile.  9009  remem 
bered  him  now;  he  was  a  mountain  boy  and  of 
late  had  taken  to  talking  to  himself. 

An  undercurrent  of  sound,  a  sort  of  attenu 
ated  whir,  a  buzzing  that  was  dull,  arose  con 
tinuously.  9009  bent  over,  close;  then  he  turned 
sick. 

"  Line  'em  up,"  growled  the  captain. 

To  the  right  of  the  tables,  9009  was  placed, 
erect;  to  the  left  of  the  tables,  the  other  two. 

[Ill] 


9009 

They  formed  a  line,  as  for  inspection.  9009  and 
the  pickpocket,  alive;  then  Miller,  the  burglar, 
and  the  boy,  dead;  then  the  other  two  convicts, 
alive.  But  the  living  men  had  dead  faces. 

They  stood  there,  it  seemed  to  them  a  long 
time.  Above,  the  sky  was  very  blue;  the  sun 
beat  down  upon  their  shaven  heads;  it  poured 
perpendicularly  upon  the  eyes  of  the  dead  men, 
which  did  not  blink;  and  there  was  a  still,  warm 
silence,  and  underneath  this  still  warm  silence, 
a  low  steady  buzzing.  9009  shuffled  his  feet. 
"Quiet!"  growled  the  captain  of  the  yard. 

He  stood  before  them,  like  a  colonel  before  his 
spread  regiment,  looking  at  them  with  an  in 
specting  frown;  then  a  satisfaction  smoothed  his 
visage;  "all  right,"  he  said  to  Jennings. 

Jennings  shouted  down  the  yard;  at  the  signal 
the  gates  of  the  jute-mill  lane  swung  inward, 
and  through  the  turreted  arch  in  the  wall  the 
lock-step  line  emerged. 

It  came  smoothly,  in  a  lithe  continuous  flow, 
as  if  it  were  to  be  endlessly,  through  the  arch, 
into  the  yard,  undulating  like  a  snake,  gray  as 

[112] 


9009 

a  larva,  mounted  upon  legs  like  a  centipede.  A 
new  eagerness  seemed  in  its  thousand  limbs,  a 
vague  tremor  was  in  its  folds,  its  slight  side- 
to-side  motion  seemed  accelerated  of  rhythm;  it 
came  along  the  way,  beaten  to  stone,  that  it  had 
made  through  so  many  days,  crawling  from  mill 
to  hall  and  back  again;  it  came,  gray  and  flaccid, 
creeping  forward  with  rapidity. 

Then  suddenly  its  head,  as  if  catching  a  scent, 
went  off  the  path  in  a  long  sidewise  rear — a 
movement  as  that  of  a  snake  which  would  rear 
like  a  horse.  There  was  a  moment  of  disorder; 
the  body  and  tail,  pressing  forward,  knotted, 
vertebras  broke;  the  voices  of  the  guards  rose 
high  and  sharp — and  then  the  head,  with  a  glid 
ing,  submissive  motion  flattened  out  again,  and 
came  on,  past  the  tables,  the  tables  served  with 
killed  men  that  stared  upward,  flanked  by  live 
men  with  dead  faces. 

The  line  went  by  slowly.  The  guards,  at  the 
head,  on  the  sides,  delayed  it  with  murmur  and 
gesture,  and  the  voice  of  the  captain,  growling, 
incessantly  bade  it  look,  look,  look.  It  flowed 

[113] 


9009 

by  with  its  side-to-side  swinging  retarded  of 
rhythm;  one  by  one  the  white  faces  passed,  glan 
cing  slantingly,  deep-lined,  heavy.  Sometimes 
nostrils  quivered  slightly;  sometimes  prison  pal 
lor  grayed.  They  passed  in  silence;  in  the  warm 
still  air  there  was  no  sound  excepting  the  shuf 
fling  of  feet,  the  low  growl  of  the  captain's  voice 
bidding  look,  and  the  buzzing  undertone.  They 
passed,  slit-eyed,  stone-faced,  sullen,  and  silent 
— 9009  saw  them  all.  He  saw  his  little  cell-mate 
looking  at  him  out  of  his  inflamed  eyes  with  that 
same  shocked  expression  with  which  he  had 
looked  at  him  from  his  cell  during  the  struggle 
in  the  corridor;  he  saw  Hayes — and  fantastical 
ly  the  shock-headed  safe-cracker  was  still  laugh 
ing  the  soundless  sneering  laugh  he  had  laughed 
while  looking  out  of  his  cell  at  9009  during  the 

break 

They  passed,  by  the  four  living  men  with  dead 
faces,  by  the  three  dead  men  gazing  vitriously  at 
the  sky — and  one  by  one  they  sank  into  the  door 
of  the  dining-hall  till  the  yard  was  desert  again — 
except  for  the  flanked  tables,  and  the  buzzing. 

[114] 


9009 

Then  9009  was  taken  back  to  the  dungeon,  and 
he  was  kept  there  for  thirty  days. 

For  thirty  days  he  was  in  blackness  and  si 
lence.  At  regular  intervals,  which  were  of 
twenty-four  hours  but  seemed  much  longer,  the 
wicket  snapped  open  and  a  half  loaf  of  bread 
with  a  pitcher  of  water  was  thrust  in,  entering 
with  a  gray  pallor  of  daylight  immediately  shut 
off  again.  He  slept  much,  in  short  periods,  at 
any  hour,  irregularly;  the  rest  of  the  time  he 
squatted  in  the  centre  of  his  cube  of  darkness, 
and  thought.  He  saw  the  confidence-man,  step 
ping  back  a-tiptoe,  raising  his  arm,  shooting; 
the  burglar  falling.  He  saw  himself  bounding 
down  the  corridor,  leaping  over  white  faces  gaz 
ing  upward,  emerging  out  into  the  sunlight — 
into  the  bristling  circle  of  the  guards'  ambush. 
And  now  another  picture  had  joined  these  two: 
he  saw  the  shock-headed  safe-cracker  peering 
out  of  his  cell  and  laughing  his  soundless  sneer 
ing  laugh  during  the  struggle  in  the  corridor;  he 
saw  his  cell-mate  gazing  at  him  with  a  shocked 
expression.  And  he  did  not  understand. 

[115] 


9009 

At  the  end  of  thirty  days  he  was  taken  before 
the  Prison  Board  in  the  warden's  office.  There 
he  faced  two  corporation  lawyers  whose  cor 
porations  were  then  undergoing  prosecution,  a 
pig-eyed  grocer  who  adulterated,  a  wholesale 
liquor  merchant,  and  a  wormy  ward  politician, 
and  these  men  took  his  copper  away  from  him. 

He  went  back  to  the  dungeon  and  thought. 
He  saw  the  two  smug  corporation  lawyers  who 
taught  their  corporations  how  to  sap  the  law, 
the  pig-eyed  grocer  who  sold  pickles  preserved 
in  sulphuric  acid,  the  wholesale  liquor  merchant 
who  helped  finance  a  corrupt  municipal  party 
and  thus  forced  his  whiskey  on  all  the  city  sa 
loons,  the  ward  politician  who  paid  for  votes 
with  dollars.  He  knew  of  these  men;  he  had 
read  their  record.  He  saw  them,  sitting  in  a 
solemn  line  behind  their  desks,  with  an  expres 
sion  of  shocked  severity  taking  from  him  his 
copper.  And  suddenly  his  laugh  rang  harsh  and 
loud  between  the  steel  walls. 

He  stayed  in  the  dungeon  thirty  days  longer. 
At  regular  intervals,  which  were  of  twenty-four 

[116] 


9009 

hours,  but  seemed  much  longer,  the  wicket 
snapped  open  and,  together  with  a  pallor  of 
day,  there  entered  a  half  loaf  of  bread  and  a 
pitcher  of  water.  He  ate;  he  slept  much,  in 
short  frequent  periods,  irregularly,  stretched 
upon  the  cold  steel  floor.  But  the  larger  part 
of  the  time  he  thought.  He  saw  the  confidence- 
man  shoot  the  burglar,  he  saw  himself  leaping 
into  the  ring  of  the  guards'  ambush,  he  saw  the 
leer  of  the  safe-cracker,  the  shocked  expression 
of  his  cell-mate — and  he  did  not  understand. 

On  the  twenty-fifth  day  the  door  opened  and 
clanged  shut  again,  and  he  was'  conscious  of  a 
presence  there  with  him  in  the  compressed  dark 
ness.  He  waited,  silent,  crouching;  and  after  a 
while  he  heard  a  short,  hard,  dry  cough. 

"  That  you,  pal?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  it's  me,"  answered  the  piping  voice  of 
his  cell-mate. 

They  were  silent  in  the  darkness.  "  What 
made  you  come  in?"  at  length  asked  9009. 

"  Got  five  days  for  talking  in  the  line,"  said 
the  invisible  cell-mate. 

[117] 


9009 

"What  for  did  you  do  it?"  pursued  9009. 

"  Thought  they'd  put  me  in  this  hole,"  ad 
mitted  the  thin  voice.  "  I  knowed  you'd  be  feel- 
in'  like  hell  about  bein'  fooled." 

"  Fooled?  " — the  voice  of  9009  rose  in  a  bellow. 

"  'Bout  the  framed-up  break.  Nichols,  that 
bunco-man,  he  was  the  stool-pigeon  that  framed 
it  for  Jennings  and  the  yard  captain.  Guess 
he'll  get  a  pardon  now.  And  '  Shorty '  Hayes, 
he's  laughing  at  ye;  says  you  and  he  heard  Jen 
nings  talk  about  the  frame-up  that  time  he  and 
you  was  painting  under  the  captain's  win 
dow " 

The  little  man's  voice  died  abruptly.  9009  had 
hurled  himself  upon  the  steel  walls,  and  he  was 
beating  them  with  hands  and  feet,  crushing  his 
face  against  them  in  an  effort  to  bite.  He  saw 
now.  He  saw  himself,  up  on  the  painter's  plat 
form  with  "  Shorty  "  Hayes,  hearing  the  words 
of  Jennings  floating  out  through  the  open  win 
dow;  he  saw  Nichols,  the  stony- faced  confidence- 
man  gradually  preparing  the  break,  and  then, 
when  it  had  come,  killing  the  burglar;  he  saw 

[118] 


9009 

the  safe-cracker  laughing  at  him  from  the  door 
of  his  cell.  He  saw — and  he  beat  madly  with 
hands  and  feet  and  head.  Like  a  maddened  in 
sect  he  whirled  along  the  four  walls  of  the  dun 
geon,  clawing,  butting,  rasping  his  teeth  against 
the  smooth  impassive  surface.  Finally,  ex 
hausted,  he  stopped,  crouching  in  the  centre  of 
the  cell.  And  after  a  while  he  laughed,  a  harsh 
laugh  that  rebounded  dully  from  the  walls  of 
steel. 

Then  a  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder;  he  felt  the 
little  cell-mate  squatting  by  his  side.  His  right 
hand  went  across  his  body;  a  small,  hard  paw 
seized  it — and  for  hours,  there,  in  the  darkness, 
the  two  crouched  silently  side  by  side,  hand  in 
hand,  without  saying  a  word.  At  times  9009 
laughed  harsh  and  loud,  and  then  the  grip  upon 
his  hand  tightened. 


[119] 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 

9009  had  turned. 

He  had  changed  faces  as  he  had  changed 
stripes.  Among  his  kind  he  now  moved  a  being 
apart,  hard-eyed,  cruel-mouthed,  a  line  of  sullen 
craft  between  his  brows,  a  sneer  at  the  end  of 
his  ugly  lips.  And  he  was  feared.  He  was  dif 
ferent,  now,  from  the  others;  a  developed  brute 
more  dangerous  than  they.  Processes  meant  to 
break  him  had  merely  warped  him;  they  had 
made  of  him  the  grimmest  thing  that  walks — a 
convict  without  hope. 

He  wore  red  stripes,  as  the  convict  who  had 
killed  the  garotter  had  done,  as  Miller  the  high 
wayman  had  done.  These  red  stripes  singled 
him  out  from  the  others.  They  displayed  him  as 
a  red  blotch  in  the  long  gray  lock-step  line;  they 
flashed  him  out,  a  red  target  amid  the  gray 
groups  in  yard  or  cell-house  or  dining-hall,  to  the 

[120] 


9009 

guards  pacing  slow  along  walls  or  waiting  in 
suspended  cages  with  rifles  loose  in  hand,  like 
hunters.  The  red  stripes  meant  this:  that  at  the 
slightest  disorder,  the  slightest  tumult,  the  least 
suspicious  movement  or  eddy  in  the  mass  of 
guarded  criminals,  it  was  he  who  was  to  receive 
the  first  bullets  from  the  guards  watching,  rifles 
in  hand,  weary  with  monotonous  vigil,  and  anx 
ious  to  kill. 

He  worked  in  the  foundry.  Striped  men  made 
there  stoves  for  thrifty  housewives,  and  they 
were  the  desperate  of  the  prison.  The  manufac 
ture  was  simple.  The  convicts  melted  scrap  in 
a  furnace — a  huge  rusty-brown  cylinder  of  iron, 
lined  with  fire-brick,  which  stood  at  one  end  of 
the  moulding-room — then  drew  the  molten  metal 
and  carried  it  in  ladles  to  black-sand  moulds, 
where  it  hardened.  The  glowing  viscous  metal 
poured  into  these  moulds  came  forth  rigid  and 
black  and  shaped  into  parts,  and  the  parts  were 
put  together  into  stoves.  9009  was  a  moulder. 

They  were  a  black-faced  scowling  crew  of  fel 
ons,  dumb  at  their  toil,  hating  one  another. 

[121] 


9009 

Their  striped  suits,  red-blotched  with  iron 
rust,  were  tattered;  their  heavy  brogans  gaped 
where  molten  drippings  had  burned  away  the 
leather.  Some  limped  from  burns,  and  some 
bore  on  hands  and  faces  ugly  sores — the  marks 
of  spattered  liquid  iron.  They  were  savagely 
reckless  at  their  work,  and  the  guards  had  to 
watch  them  closely  lest  they  maim  themselves. 
They  sweated  in  torment  and  strange  wordless 
feuds  existed  among  them;  stealthy  blows  were 
struck  without  cause. 

The  moulding  room  was  long  and  low,  earth- 
floored,  dusky  with  shadows  at  noonday.  On  the 
earth  floor,  in  rows  flanking  path-wide  intervals, 
lay  the  moulds — wooden  frames  about  which 
was  tamped  black  sand.  Walls  and  roof  were 
of  corrugated  iron.  The  naked  rafters  overhead 
were  crusted  with  dirt;  black  dirt  lay  in  thin 
layers  on  the  window-panes  and  hung  in  cob- 
webbed  festoons  from  the  bars.  At  one  end  of 
the  room,  looming  tall  into  the  shadows  until 
it  became  itself  a  shadow  among  them,  stood 
the  cylindrical  furnace,  gloomy  when  dead,  and 

[122] 


9009 

on  pouring-off  days  a  menacing  monster  which 
at  sudden  intervals  vomited  red-hot  metal.  In 
the  centre  of  the  room,  up  among  the  dust-cov 
ered  rafters,  was  a  suspended  steel-barred  cage; 
and  in  it  a  guard  stood,  fingering  his  rifle.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  in  the  midst  of  a  fiery 
spark  shower,  his  black  face  catching  weird  high 
lights  from  the  glowing  rain  about  him,  Jimmy 
Carroll,  the  little  cell-mate,  sat  on  a  high  stool 
at  the  emery  wheel.  Often  9009  glanced  over 
there,  especially  toward  night,  when  the  little 
man  swayed  sickly  on  his  perch. 

Four  days  a  week  9009  tamped  black  sand 
about  the  mould-patterns.  He  worked,  pound 
ing,  pounding,  pounding,  with  loose  shoulders, 
the  cold  smell  of  earth,  charcoal,  and  fresh  iron 
dust  in  his  nostrils;  sombre-lined  faces  and 
striped  forms  flitted  about  him;  at  times  his 
eyes,  unconsciously  rising,  gave  him  a  glimpse 
of  the  cage  overhead,  with  the  guard  vague 
within,  or  of  his  cell-mate,  swaying  on  his  high 
stool  in  a  Sodom-like  rain.  Two  days  a  week  he 
stood  in  line  with  the  other  moulders,  holding  his 

[123] 


9009 

long-handled  ladle  and  waiting  his  turn  to  slip 
it  under  the  sullen  red  stream  which  the  furnace 
gave.  On  these  pouring-off  days,  the  sweating 
felons  strained  like  black-faced  demons  among 
lurid  glows,  emerging  from  deep  shadows  into 
abrupt  flares  and  dropping  back  into  their 
depths.  They  looked  like  men  long  dead  and 
damned  for  all  time.  But  always,  to  9009,  a 
glimpse  of  his  cell-mate,  swaying  on  his  high 
stool  in  a  fiery  rain,  came  as  a  subtle  respite. 

When  one  of  the  convicts  was  hurt,  the  others 
laughed.  And  one  of  the  jests  of  the  moulding- 
room  was  to  spit  into  your  neighbour's  filled 
ladle,  causing  an  explosion  that  seared  him.  A 
felon  did  this  to  9009  one  day.  9009  leaped  upon 
him,  and  when  he  was  dragged  off,  he  was  tram 
pling  the  prostrate  form  of  the  evil  jester. 

For  this  he  went  to  the  dungeon  for  ten  days. 
When  on  the  morning  terminating  his  sentence 
he  reentered  the  foundry  and  looked  up  toward 
the  emery  wheel,  Jimmy  Carroll  was  not  there. 
Another  convict  sat  at  his  place,  in  the  fiery 
shower. 

[124] 


9009 

All  that  day,  tamping  black  sand  into  wooden 
patterns,  9009  questioned  about  him,  questioned 
with  sharp  glances  from  shifting  eyes — but  he 
got  no  answer. 

That  night  he  was  all  alone  in  his  cell,  and  all 
night  he  pondered.  In  the  morning,  during 
cleaning-up  time,  he  began  again  his  question 
ing,  furtive,  lipless,  but  fiercer  every  moment; 
but  again  only  shaken  heads  and  shrugging 
shoulders  met  him. 

For  a  week  it  was  thus.  He  was  alone  in  his 
cell  at  night;  in  the  daytime  a  strange  convict 
sat  at  the  emery  wheel — a  long,  lean  man  with 
a  lead-hued  face.  And  the  toil  was  harder 
than  it  had  been  before — and  his  savage  ques 
tioning,  insistent  and  implacable,  rebounded 
from  the  hard  faces  of  his  fellows  as  from  blank 
stone  walls. 

Then,  after  a  time,  a  rumour  began  to  perco 
late  slowly  through  the  prison — in  lipless  words, 
from  stone  face  to  stone  face,  vague,  incomplete 
at  first,  irritating  as  the  tapping  snatches  of  a 
telegraph  receiver  out  of  order,  but  little  by  lit- 

[125] 


9009 

tie,  in  that  mysterious  way  rumour  has,  growing 
more  detailed,  surer,  more  complete. 

Jimmy  Carroll  the  little  cell-mate  was  dead. 
He  had  been  shot. 

This  was  all  for  a  time;  then  by  glance,  by 
shrug,  by  swiftly  stolen  word,  9009  was  directed 
to  "  Shorty "  Hayes,  the  shock-headed  safe- 
cracker  who  had  laughed  at  him  as  he  had  joined 
the  break.  And  one  Sunday  he  cornered  him  in 
the  yard  and  drew  the  whole  story  from  him. 

This  convict  was  under  a  fifty  years'  sentence. 
He  had  lost  his  copper  long  since.  Now  he  was 
to  get  it  back  from  the  Governor  of  the  State. 
In  some  subtle  subterranean  way  he  had  got 
hold  of  the  facts  of  Jimmy  Carroll's  death,  and 
the  knowledge  was  worth  to  him  his  copper. 

He  crowed  harshly  over  this,  long,  before  he 
told  9009  anything.  And  while  telling,  every 
sentence  or  two  he  broke  from  the  telling  and 
croaked  again  his  triumph.  "  They're  a-goin'  to 
get  me  me  copper  back  from  the  Governor,"  he 
would  croak;  "thirteen  years'  copper  they're 
a-goin'  to  give  me  back — fer  what  I  know.  Fer 

[126] 


9009 

what  I  know,"  he  repeated,  chuckling  raspingly. 
"  Ho-ho-ho,  me  copper  fer  what  I  know! " 

What  he  knew,  what  he  had  gained  in  some 
mysterious  way,  was  this: 

Two  mornings  after  9009's  fight,  and  while  he 
was  in  the  dungeon,  Jimmy  Carroll  suddenly  had 
refused  to  work. 

He  had  been  taken  to  the  office  of  the  captain 
of  the  yard.  And  there,  quietly,  stubbornly,  he 
had  again  refused  to  work. 

They  had  taken  him,  then,  to  the  whipping 
post  in  the  chapel. 

"  Put  your  hands  up  to  the  ring,"  said  the  cap 
tain,  pointing  to  the  ring,  stapled  into  the  post 
a  little  more  than  man-height,  to  which  the 
hands  of  the  victim  were  manacled  during  the 
flogging. 

"I  won't,"  said  the  little  black-faced  man; 
"  I'm  sick;  I  won't  work;  and  I  won't  be  flogged." 

"  Put  up  your  hands,"  said  the  captain. 

"  I  won't;  I'm  sick  and  I  won't  be  flogged." 

"  Put  up  your  hands,"  said  the  captain,  pick 
ing  up  the  cat. 

[127] 


0009 

"  I  won't,"  said  the  little  black-faced  man, 
folding  his  arms  upon  his  caved-in  chest. 

The  captain's  face  went  very  white.  "  Jen 
nings,"  he  said  to  the  guard  standing  by;  "Jen 
nings,  you  get  your  rifle." 

Jennings  had  disappeared,  then  had  returned 
with  the  rifle. 

"  Put  your  hands  up  to  this  ring,"  began  the 
captain  again  when  Jennings,  rifle  in  hand, 
again  stood  in  the  chapel. 

"  I  won't,"  said  the  little  man.  He  stopped  to 
cough,  looking  up  at  the  captain  out  of  his  in 
flamed  eyes,  with  their  red-drooping  lower  lids. 
"You  c'n  kill  me;  I  won't  be  flogged." 

"  Carroll,  I'm  man  of  my  word,"  said  the  cap 
tain,  very  white.  "  And  so  help  me  God,  if  you 
don't  put  up  your  hands  to  this  ring,  you'll  be 
shot." 

"  Shoot,"  said  Jimmy  Carroll. 

"  Jennings,  get  ready,"  said  the  captain. 

Jennings  stared  at  him,  stared  at  Carroll, 
raised  his  rifle,  and  aimed  it  at  the  little  black- 
faced  man. 

[128] 


9009 

"  Now,  put  up  your  hands,"  said  the  captain, 
his  face  suddenly  going  black  as  the  little  man's. 

"  I  won't,"  said  the  little  man. 

"  Shoot,"  said  the  captain. 

And  Jennings  had  shot.  And  Jimmy  Carroll 
had  gone  over  backward  in  a  thin  little  sprawl, 
a  bullet  in  his  heart. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  safe-cracker,  his  face, 
suddenly  very  sinister,  bent  close  to  9009's; 
"  now  Buddy,  remember,  I'll  cut  off  your  head 
if  ye  open  yer  mouth!  " 

But  9009  did  not  answer.  He  sat  there,  his 
eyes  upon  the  ground,  long.  And  the  next  day, 
from  the  machine-shop  of  the  foundry,  he  stole 
a  big  heavy  file,  just  such  a  file  as,  months  be 
fore,  he  had  seen  the  red-striped  convict  of  the 
jute-mill  plunge  into  the  shoulders  of  the  gar- 
otter.  And  that  night,  through  the  long  sleep 
less  hours,  he  stretched  deliciously  to  the  rasp 
of  it  against  his  flesh,  there  beneath  his  red- 
striped  jacket,  upon  his  heart. 

[129] 


CHAPTER   TWELVE 

ABOUT  the  rasp-file  9009's  life  now  enwrapped 
itself.  The  thing  was  the  symbol  of  his  purpose, 
his  engrossing  purpose,  the  one  fixed  light  left 
in  his  blackened  soul.  For  many  days  he  car 
ried  it  with  him  just  as  it  was,  beneath  his  gar 
ments;  at  night  he  stretched  deliciously  to  its 
rasp,  there  against  his  skin,  upon  his  heart.  A 
somnolent  apathy  had  come  over  him;  that  mere 
contact  gave  him  a  profound  satisfaction,  al 
most  a  satiety:  it  was  with  an  effort  that  he 
roused  himself  to  the  next  step.  But  at  length 
he  stole  from  the  machine-shop  another  file,  a 
small  one,  of  diamond  steel,  and  with  it  he  began 
to  sharpen  the  big  one,  of  softer  steel,  into  a 
knife. 

He  worked  at  night,  surreptitiously,  with  in 
finite  precaution,  under  the  muflle  of  his  blanket, 
his  ears  taut  to  the  hissing  feet  of  the  guard; 

[130] 


9009 

and  progress  was  slow,  but  exquisite  from  its 
very  slowness.  He  was  greatly  delayed  by  the 
necessity  of  parting  for  long  periods  with  the 
object  of  his  tenderness. 

He  had  found,  in  the  stone  wall  of  the  laundry, 
which  stood  a  bare  two  feet  from  the  stone  wall 
of  the  cook-house,  a  niche  hollowed  for  a  water- 
pipe;  and  whenever  he  feared  discovery,  or  his 
instinct  announced  to  him  the  coming  of  a 
search,  he  dropped  his  file  in  the  niche  behind  the 
water-pipe.  Then  for  days  he  would  be  separated 
from  it,  tortured  with  sudden  accesses  of  fear  in 
spite  of  his  confidence  in  the  security  of  his  hid 
ing-place.  But  he  had  become  wonderfully  pa 
tient,  and  he  stood  the  test  well.  His  purpose 
burned  within  him  always,  without  a  sputter, 
fixed,  unalterable.  He  remembered  how  the  mur 
derer  of  the  garotter  had  waited,  days,  weeks, 
months,  never  letting  the  desire  of  his  heart 
light  up  his  eyes,  while  the  garotter  passed  and 
repassed  him,  and  on  his  breast  the  knife  lay, 
not  quite  ready.  A  patience  such  as  this  was 
now  with  him  always,  a  patience  he  felt  inex- 

[131] 


9009 

haustible  within  him,  and  in  which  he  took  a 
grim  and  sullen  pride. 

And  so,  night  after  night,  with  intervals  of 
long  separations,  he  fondled  the  file,  and  be 
neath  his  caressing  and  firm  sculpturing  gradu 
ally  it  grew  into  the  shape  he  loved — pointed, 
razor-edged,  well-poised.  The  feel  of  its  well- 
balanced  weight  in  his  hand  was  a  constant  joy. 
It  could  split  a  skull  or  carve  out  a  rib.  It  was 
just  like  the  knife  he  had  watched  on  the  desk 
of  the  captain  of  the  yard,  the  day  of  the  jute- 
mill  murder,  a  trifle  bigger,  stronger,  better 
shaped  if  anything.  It  cut  him  often  as  it  lay 
against  his  skin,  upon  his  heart — and  he  ac 
cepted  these  wounds  voluptuously,  as  a  mother 
accepts  the  scratches  of  the  babe  she  loves;  at 
night  he  stretched  ecstatically  to  the  rasping 
of  it,  as  a  religious  fanatic  stretches  to  the  tor 
ture  of  his  hair  shirt.  Visions  came  to  him  then. 
He  saw  the  red-striped  convict  of  the  jute-mill 
spring,  leap-frog  fashion,  upon  the  garotter;  he 
saw  his  right  hand  sink  into  the  bent  back  with 
a  crunch,  then  rise,  fall,  rise,  fall.  And  by  a 

£132] 


9009 

swift  transformation,  it  was  he  that  sprang, 
leap-frog  fashion;  his  hand  that  pumped,  up  and 
down,  up  and  down;  his  knees  that  grasped  a 
thick  gurgling  neck — and  the  neck  was  not  that 
of  the  garotter. 

He  waited,  grimly  patient,  day  after  day, 
week  after  week.  At  times,  without  much  con 
viction,  he  tried  to  coax  on  the  favourable  mo 
ment;  and  this  resulted  in  what  the  prison  offi 
cials  took  for  attempts  at  escaping — attempts 
incredibly  stupid. 

On  one  Sunday,  for  instance,  he  wandered  into 
the  office  of  the  captain  of  the  yard  under  the 
excuse  of  drawing  a  new  suit  of  underwear.  He 
could  hear  the  voice  of  Jennings  in  the  inner 
office,  and  he  was  very  long  in  picking  his  gar 
ment,  rejecting  suit  after  suit  under  flimsy  pre 
texts;  then  after  finally  he  had  had  to  choose, 
loitered  in  the  outer  corridor,  aimlessly,  till  Wil 
son,  with  the  unerring  instinct  of  the  informer, 
becoming  suspicious,  ordered  him  out.  He 
cursed  Wilson;  and  for  this  he  was  given  a  week 
in  the  dungeon. 

[133] 


9009 

On  another  day,  he  broke  up  the  lock-step  line 
in  its  morning  march  from  cell-house  to  dining- 
hall.  Jennings  commanded  the  line  that  day. 
He  stood  near  the  wall,  fifty  feet  from  the  line 
as  it  passed.  With  a  furtive  movement,  9009 
threw  from  him  a  piece  of  plug  tobacco  which  he 
had  traded  from  another  convict  for  a  pair  of 
hoarded  shoe-laces.  It  lit  on  the  ground,  twenty 
feet  from  Jennings,  unseen  of  all.  Then,  very 
calmly,  9009  stepped  out  of  the  line  and  walked 
toward  Jennings.  Immediately  voices  rose; 
from  the  wall  a  rifle  cracked;  a  bullet  struck  the 
ground  at  9009's  feet.  Disdainfully  he  stooped, 
picked  up  the  tobacco,  placed  it  between  his 
teeth,  and  shuffled  back  to  the  line.  He  had 
been  unable  to  get  nearer  than  the  twenty  feet 
from  Jennings. 

For  this  he  was  given  the  water-cure.  Fet 
tered  to  a  ring  stapled  in  the  stone  wall  of  the 
corridor  leading  to  the  dungeon,  he  stood  before 
the  captain  of  the  yard,  who  played  upon  his  face 
the  powerful  stream  of  a  hose  till  he  was  half- 
drowned  and  chilled  to  the  marrow. 

[134] 


9009 

Some  time  after  he  made  another  attempt,  a 
more  serious  one,  but  just  as  stupid  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  prison  officers.  Slipping 
out  of  the  line  as  it  left  the  foundry  (it  was  the 
dusk  of  a  winter's  day)  he  crawled  to  the  cook 
house  and  slipped  into  the  narrow  space  be 
tween  that  and  the  laundry,  near  the  niche 
where  he  used  to  hide  his  knife  at  times  of  dan 
ger  from  search.  By  the  mouth  of  this  narrow 
gut,  Jennings  had  to  pass  four  times  a  day  on  his 
way  to  the  jute-mill  and  back. 

But  Jennings  did  not  appear.  He  was  out  at 
the  head  of  a  posse  which,  deceived,  pursued  an 
unwitting  tramp  over  the  hills.  For  three  days 
9009  crouched  foodless  and  shelterless  in  his  re 
treat  while  man-hunters  roamed  the  hills  for 
him  on  the  outside;  then  Wilson,  heading  a 
search  within  the  walls,  found  him.  For  his 
pains  he  was  throttled  almost  to  death  before 
the  guards  could  part  9009's  iron  fingers. 

For  this  9009  was  formally  tried  in  the  court 
of  the  district  under  the  charge  of  assault  to 
commit  murder.  The  trial  was  short.  9009  did 

[135] 


9009 

not  open  his  mouth  once.  And  he  moved  not  a 
muscle  when  the  judge  sentenced  him  to  ten  ad 
ditional  years  in  the  penitentiary. 

He  was  placed,  now,  in  solitary  confinement. 

The  solitary  cells  were  on  the  top  floor  of  the 
building  to  which  the  garotter  had  pointed,  for 
the  information  of  the  murderer,  on  9009's  first 
day.  This  building  was  known  about  the  prison 
as  the  "  Stone  Building,"  probably  from  the  mas- 
siveness  of  its  walls.  The  solitary  cells  were  in 
a  corridor  by  themselves.  The  light  was  dim 
there;  it  came  from  a  single  small  window  high 
up  in  the  wall. 

They  watched  him,  in  his  cage  up  there,  in  the 
shadowy  corridor;  a  guard  stood  all  day  before 
his  steel-barred  door.  By  night  he  was  left 
alone.  The  cell  was  steel-walled,  steel-floored, 
steel-barred  in  front.  It  was  six  feet  long  and 
five  wide.  The  bunk  took  two  and  a  half  feet 
of  the  width;  so  there  was  left  a  space  six 
feet  long  and  two  and  a  half  feet  wide  in  which 
9009  could  walk.  Once  each  two  weeks  his 
guard  took  him  into  the  corridor  and  let  him 

[136] 


9009 

exercise  there.  His  eyes  dilated  with  the  dim 
light.  His  hair  had  grown  long,  for  they  sel 
dom  sent  the  prison  barber  to  him,  and  the  lines 
on  his  face  had  deepened  to  crevasses. 

He  slept,  fitfully,  as  an  animal  sleeps  in  a 
cage,  by  short  snatches;  he  walked  to  and  fro  in 
the  confined  space;  he  mended  his  clothes.  And 
he  planned. 

To  merely  wait  for  his  chance,  now,  was  not 
sufficient.  To  fulfil  his  purpose,  he  must  get  out 
of  the  solitary  cell.  His  knife  lay  in  the  niche 
behind  the  water-pipe;  he  had  dropped  it  there 
when  discovered  by  Wilson.  For  the  fulfilment 

; 

of  his  purpose,  he  must  have  the  knife;  and  to 
have  the  knife  he  must  get  out  of  his  cell.  The 
rest  would  be  comparatively  easy,  for  the  build 
ing  was  not  locked.  It  would  take  care  and 
stealth,  a  careful  avoidance  of  guard  and  trusty. 
He  felt  no  hurry.  The  years  of  his  new  sen 
tence  lay  ahead  of  him;  he  took  pleasure  in  a 
contemplation  of  them,  stretching  long  before 
him;  it  was  as  if  eternity,  suddenly,  had  been 
placed  at  the  service  of  his  purpose.  Once  only 

[137] 


9009 

did  he  sicken  with  impatience  and  worry;  this 
was  when  lipless  prison  rumour  told  him  that 
Jennings  lay  ill  in  the  hospital.  Two  weeks 
later,  though,  he  heard  that  the  guard  was 
back  at  his  duty  in  the  jute-mill,  and  his  bars 
roared  out  his  relief  in  a  rattle  that  reverberated 
long  in  the  dusky  corridor.  But  this  had  been  a 
lesson;  he  saw  the  danger  of  procrastination, 
and  concentrated  his  mind  on  the  problem  of 
leaving  his  cell.  And  finally  the  solution  came. 

He  began  to  ask  for  needles  often — as  often 
as  he  dared,  making  the  while  a  great  show  of 
repairing  his  garments.  In  this  way,  in  a  year 
he  collected  ten  needles. 

He  took  these  ten  needles  and  fitted  them  into 
the  wooden  stem  of  a  brier  pipe.  He  fitted  them 
close  together,  like  the  teeth  of  a  comb;  they 
were  hard;  they  made  a  diminutive  saw;  and 
they  bit  steel.  With  these  needles  he  began  to 
saw  his  bars. 

He  sawed  for  a  year,  and  had  three  bars  nearly 
through;  and  then  his  cell  was  changed. 

His  patience,  now,  had  become  something  fun- 
[138] 


9009 

damental  within  him,  as  granite  is  fundamental 
of  the  earth.  He  sat  down  and  waited.  They 
changed  him  again  to  another  cell.  And  then 
to  another.  He  spent  nearly  three  years  in  dif 
ferent  cells,  and  then,  one  morning,  he  found 
himself  again  in  the  cell  where  he  had  sawed. 
That  night  he  tested  the  bars.  They  were  as  he 
had  left  them,  three  years  before.  Three  of  them 
were  severed  but  for  a  thread  of  steel;  the 
guards  had  discovered  nothing.  He  began  purr 
ing  at  the  fourth  bar. 

He  worked  craftily,  with  stealth,  at  night, 
very  slowly;  for  before  him  lay  years,  the  eter 
nity  of  time  placed,  by  a  trick  of  Fate,  at  the 
disposal  of  his  purpose;  and  it  was  silly  to  take 
chances.  He  worked  in  the  shadows,  crouched, 
rubbing  evenly,  quietly,  but  firmly,  cutting  bars 
of  steel  with  needles.  When  he  had  done  each 
night,  he  scattered  with  deep  breaths  of  his 
lungs  the  almost  imperceptible  little  heap  of 
steel  dust  resulting,  and  smudged  over  the  thin 
wound  in  the  bar  with  a  bit  of  moistened  bread 
and  lamp-black.  So  he  lived,  eating  but  little, 

[139] 


9009 

sleeping  fitfully,  like  a  caged  animal,  lying  on 
his  back  staring  up  into  the  shadows  with  eyes 
dilated  with  long  penetration  of  gloom,  lived 
with  his  purpose.  But  at  times  an  agony  of 
cold  sweat  poured  out  upon  his  skin  as  he 
thought  that  perhaps  his  knife,  his  precious  file- 
knife,  needle-pointed,  razor-edged,  so  well  bal 
anced,  toward  which  he  was  cutting  his  way 
through  bars  of  steel  with  needles,  that  his  knife 
might  not  be  there,  in  the  niche  behind  the 
water-pipe,  where  he  had  left  it. 

And  then,  suddenly,  one  day  an  astounding 
thing  happened;  he  received  a  letter. 

Two  convicts,  two  new  trusties  whom  9009 
had  never  seen,  were  cleaning  the  corridor.  The 
arm  of  one  snapped  abruptly,  and  between  the 
bars  something  that  looked  like  a  white  butter 
fly  fluttered  in  and  lit  upon  the  steel  floor  near 
9009.  He  placed  his  foot  upon  it,  and  several 
minutes  later  picked  it  up. 

It  was  a  letter,  and  it  was  from  Nell.  It  was 
from  Nell!  From  Nell,  the  woman  he  had  kept 
from  his  thoughts,  the  woman  from  whom,  stub- 

[140] 


9009 

bornly,  knowing  life  and  her  kind,  he  had  re 
fused  to  expect  anything;  and  it  was  an  extraor 
dinary  letter. 

For  three  years  she  had  been  working  from 
the  outside  to  help  him.  And  now  she  had  ac 
complished  her  purpose. 

In  the  passageway  between  the  bakery  and 
the  laundry,  the  letter  said,  in  an  old  drain-pipe, 
a  rifle,  a  revolver,  and  a  rope  lay  cached  for  him. 

That  night  9009  sawed  with  his  needles 
through  the  last  fibres  of  the  four  bars. 


[141] 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

IT  was  the  dark  hour  before  the  dawn,  black 
and  still  and  cold,  when  9009,  slipping  the  last 
severed  bar  from  its  place  and  laying  it  noise 
lessly  down,  wiggled  out  of  his  cell  like  a  red- 
barred  snake.  A  moment  later  he  was  outside  the 
building,  shrinking,  a  shadow  among  shadows. 

He  was  in  the  upper  yard.  To  his  right  was 
the  "  Stone  Building  "  from  which  he  had  just 
emerged;  to  his  left,  across  the  yard,  lay  his  old 
cell-house.  Before  him,  a  hundred  feet  away, 
opened  the  alley-way  leading  to  the  lower  yard 
with  its  little  garden,  where  were  the  warden's 
office  and  the  sleeping  quarters  of  the  guards. 
The  left  side  of  this  alley  was  made  by  the  sec 
ond  cell-house  and  the  dining-hall;  the  right  side 
by  the  line  of  outhouses.  These  consisted  of  the 
laundry,  the  cook-house,  and  bakery.  Between 
them  were  narrow  spaces,  mere  guts  two  feet 

[142] 


9009 

wide.  It  was  in  the  nearer  of  these  that  he  had 
once  hidden  for  three  days;  in  the  same  one  was 
the  niche  where  his  knife  lay;  and  the  farther 
one  was  now  his  goal.  Between  this  and  the 
point  where  now  he  stood  was  a  stretch  of  the 
yard,  a  hundred  feet  of  it,  bluely  aglare  with 
the  lights  of  the  electric  mast. 

Everything  was  very  still  where  he  stood,  and 
very  sombre.  Behind  him  was  a  stretch  of  wall 
— and  on  it  a  muffled  guard  walked  slowly,  car 
rying  his  gun  loosely  in  his  right  arm,  like  a 
hunter.  In  the  centre  of  the  yard,  high  on  a  slim 
mast,  a  cluster  of  arc-lights  threw  frozen  blue 
rays  wide  into  the  sea  of  darkness  below.  They 
revealed  harshly  everything  they  touched:  the 
beaten  path  in  the  yard,  the  stones  of  the  high 
granite  wall,  the  guard,  his  rifle-barrel  gleam 
ing  cold,  the  "  Stone  Building,"  hard  and  high, 
the  cell-house,  black-patched  with  barred  win 
dows,  the  cluster  of  outhouses  before  him,  and 
especially,  with  a  frigid  intensity,  an  uncom 
promising  malevolence,  the  stretch  of  beaten 
ground  between  him  and  his  goal. 

1 143  ] 


900,9 

He  stood  in  the  narrow  gutter  of  shadow 
along  the  base  of  the  fagade  of  the  "  Stone  Build 
ing,"  and  he  stared  at  the  guard  on  the  wall  with 
dilated  eyes  used  to  searching  darkness.  The 
man  was  coming  from  the  far  extremity  of  his 
beat,  toward  9009,  pacing  slowly,  his  rifle  loose 
in  hand;  he  paused  to  readjust  the  muffler 
around  his  neck,  and  then,  abruptly,  his  head 
snapped  forward  and  his  rifle  rose  in  his  hand. 

It  may  have  been  the  pillar  of  shade,  the 
blacker  shadow  in  the  black  shadows  which  had 
not  been  there  before — for  peering  straight  tow 
ard  the  place,  the  guard  became  very  tense; 
in  the  glare  9009  could  see  his  features  tighten, 
his  left  arm  crook.  The  rifle  was  still  going  up; 
it  stopped  halfway  between  hip  and  shoulder; 
the  two  men  stood  still  as  graven  images — the 
guard,  a  sharp  figure  in  the  blue-white  light, 
bent,  taut,  watching;  the  barred  convict  in  the 
shadow,  crouching,  motionless,  his  eyes  peering 
without  lid  movement,  like  the  pitiless  eyes  of 
a  snake. 

And  then  the  guard  relaxed;  he  dropped  back 
[144] 


9009 

his  rifle  to  the  old  loose  carriage  and  resumed 
his  walk.  9009,  immobile,  unblinking,  watched 
him  approach  the  end  of  his  beat  and  then,  pivot 
ing,  start  for  the  other  end,  his  back  turned;  in 
stantly  he  slid  out  into  the  luminous  space. 

He  ran,  swiftly  and  silently,  on  the  balls  of 
his  feet,  his  arms  half  doubled,  his  chin  thrown 
upon  his  humped  right  shoulder,  looking  back 
ward  all  the  time  at  the  guard  upon  the  wall, 
who  paced  along  with  his  back  still  turned.  He 
covered  forty  feet — and  the  guard  still  walked; 
fifty,  sixty — the  guard  was  slowing  up;  seventy 
feet — the  guard  paused.  There  in  the  middle 
of  the  walk  something,  perhaps  some  cold  pre 
monition,  had  arrested  him.  His  gun  flashed; 
he  was  turning.  Throwing  his  eyes  forward, 
9009  leaped  in  great  bounds;  the  shadow  of  the 
dining-hall,  sharp  as  the  tape  at  the  end  of  a 
race,  cut  the  ground  ten  feet  ahead.  He  gave 
a  last  look  backward;  the  guard  whipped 
around;  9009  plunged  head-first,  like  a  frog,  and 
sprawled  upon  his  belly  within  the  darkness 
which  immediately  closed  about  him  like  water. 

[145] 


9009 

He  lay  as  he  had  fallen,  awaiting  the  shock 
of  bullet,  the  roar  of  the  guard's  rifle.  But  he 
did  not  move.  He  could  not  believe  that  he  had 
not  been  seen.  A  moment  passed.  A  desire  to 
draw  up  his  legs  possessed  him;  he  knew  that 
they  must  be  out,  distinct,  in  the  light.  But  he 
did  not  move.  He  lay  like  a  stone.  His  face 
was  in  the  earth;  he  could  taste  mud  upon  his 
lips;  his  feet  felt  cold  as  though  he  were  be 
neath  a  blanket  and  they  were  sticking  out;  he 
imagined  them  enormously  visible.  But  he  did 
not  move. 

A  minute  passed,  a  century.  But  there  was 
no  shock  of  bullet,  no  roar  of  rifle.  Finally,  he 
turned  his  head. 

He  turned  it  slowly,  smoothly,  until  he  could 
look  at  right  angles  to  his  body,  then  with  infi 
nite  precautions,  in  imperceptible  progressions, 
he  bent  it  till  the  line  of  vision  had  passed  his 
shoulder.  But  still  he  could  see  nothing.  Some 
thing  opaque  and  enormous  barred  his  way; 
an  immense  pillar.  It  was  barred.  It  was  his 
arm. 

[146] 


9009 

He  moved  the  arm  in  toward  his  side  with  the 
same  smooth  stealthiness — and  he  could  see 
across  the  lit  earth  of  the  yard,  clear  to  the  wall. 
But  he  could  not  see  the  top  of  the  wall.  Again 
he  began  an  infinitely  cautious  movement.  He 
raised  his  head,  from  the  neck,  with  no  body 
change,  as  though  he  were  a  contortionist;  the 
muscle  of  his  throat  cracked  with  the  effort. 

And  then  he  saw.  The  guard  was  pacing  back 
along  the  beat  his  gun  loose  in  hand,  his  back 
turned. 

9009  now  crawled,  on  his  belly  like  a  red-ringed 
snake,  into  the  alley-way. 

He  crawled  by  the  narrow  gut  where  his  knife 
had  lain  hidden  for  more  than  three  years,  and 
went  on,  writhing,  to  the  second,  between  the 
cook-house  and  bakery.  Crouching  at  the  en 
trance  of  this,  he  looked  back.  He  could  not 
see  the  guard;  and  he  must  be  invisible  to  the 
guard.  He  rose  and  went  in  between  the  two 
buildings,  squeezing  edgewise,  his  right  hand 
ahead,  feeling  the  wall,  until  it  came  against  the 
broken  drain-pipe.  He  dropped  his  hand  into 

[147] 


9009 

the  pipe — and  the  cold  muzzle  of  a  rifle,  there 
between  his  fingers,  thrilled  him  to  the  marrow. 

He  stood  there,  his  hand  in  the  pipe,  his  fin 
gers  about  the  cold  muzzle,  long;  then  with  a 
jerk  drew  up  the  rifle.  It  fell  across  his  out 
stretched  arms,  and  he  held  it  thus  a  moment, 
as  a  mother  holds  her  child,  his  eyes  examining 
it  swiftly,  passing  with  satisfaction  over  the 
thin,  short  barrel,  the  massive  breech-lock,  the 
stock,  heavy  with  stored  death.  The  magazine 
was  full,  a  cartridge  was  in  the  breech — he  knew 
that  those  who  had  climbed  the  wall  and  hidden 
it  had  been  negligent  of  no  such  details.  He 
took  up  the  weapon  in  his  hands  now,  right  hand 
about  small  of  stock,  left  hand  a  sliding  crotch 
about  the  barrel — and  suddenly  he  snapped  up 
to  his  full  height. 

A  terrific  feeling  of  power  had  risen  through 
him.  Once,  in  this  prison,  he  had  been  a  man 
intent  on  obedience;  months  had  changed  him 
to  a  sullen  suspicious  convict;  years  had  made 
of  him  a  crouching,  stalking  beast;  and  now,  at 
the  touch  of  this  rifle,  he  sprang  up  a  monster. 

[148] 


9009 

His  muscles  were  of  steel,  his  nerves  were  of 
iron;  he  was  sure  of  himself,  absolutely  sure. 
He  felt  that  he  could  kill,  that  no  one,  not  God 
Himself,  could  keep  him  from  killing.  He  could 
kill  when  he  pleased.  He  could  not  miss,  of  that 
he  was  incredibly  sure;  in  his  arms,  already,  in 
his  arms,  in  his  eye,  in  his  trigger-finger,  he  had 
the  feel  of  the  coming  kills. 

He  groped  again  into  the  pipe;  his  hands 
found  three  things:  first,  a  rope,  coiled,  at  one 
end  of  which  dangled  a  grappling  hook;  then  a 
revolver,  then  a  box  of  ammunition.  He  coiled 
the  rope  about  his  waist.  The  revolver  was  a 
long  heavy  single-action  six-shooter,  of  the  pat 
tern  he  had  always  liked.  He  tucked  it  beneath 
his  waist-band.  The  cartridges  he  dropped, 
loose,  into  one  of  his  pockets.  Then  he  stood, 
erect,  in  the  alley,  close  to  the  wall  of  the  cook 
house. 

Dawn  was  coming  in  the  east,  a  sullen  dawn. 
It  coloured  lightly  the  scale-tips  of  a  mackerel 
sky,  and  then,  with  weird  swiftness,  painted  per 
pendicularly  three  great  red  bars  across  the 

[149] 


9009 

murky  horizon.  9009,  standing  in  the  shadowy 
alley,  saw  the  three  red  bars;  he  knew  that  in 
half  an  hour  the  day  guards  would  be  up,  that 
in  half  an  hour  the  whole  prison  would  be  rising 
— and  a  sudden  temptation  convulsed  him. 

He  saw  the  guard,  alone,  upon  the  wall ;  an  im 
pulse  told  him  to  shoot,  rush  to  the  wall,  climb, 
jump,  rush  to  freedom,  now,  on  the  instant, 
using  the  moment's  opportunity.  His  heart 
stabbed  him  with  a  palpitation,  his  blood  leaped 
through  his  veins — and  the  stock  of  his  rifle 
sprang  to  his  shoulder. 

He  stood  thus,  a  long  minute,  the  stock 
smooth  against  his  cheek,  peering,  through  the 
crotch  of  the  back-sight,  at  the  white  bead  held 
immobile  against  the  dark  loom  of  the  guard's 
breast,  his  finger,  twitching,  crooked  about  the 
trigger,  while  he  fought  the  fight.  Finally,  with 
a  release  of  pent-up  breath,  he  lowered  the  gun. 
The  temptation  was  gone;  his  purpose  had  won; 
again  it  was  with  him,  grim,  inflexible,  uncon 
querable. 

He  crept  into  the  narrow  gut  between  the 
[150] 


9009 

laundry  and  the  cook-house,  and  in  the  niche  be 
hind  the  water-pipe  found  his  file-knife  where  he 
had  laid  it,  three  years  before.  The  blade  was 
rusty  now,  dulled  with  cakes  of  rust;  the  point 
was  gone  and  was  like  a  knob;  but  the  thing  still 
was  hard  and  thick  and  heavy;  its  well-balanced 
weight  was  still  a  joy  in  the  hand.  He  slipped 
it  under  his  waist-band,  by  the  revolver — and 
immediately,  like  a  memory  of  old  times,  almost 
sweet,  he  felt  the  rasp  of  it  upon  his  skin,  the 
rasp  that  once  had  been  a  promise,  the  promise 
now  so  near  of  fulfillment.  He  crept  back  far 
ther  into  the  narrow  passage,  and  waited  there, 
patient,  alone  with  his  purpose. 

The  whole  heavens  were  red  now,  deep  red, 
like  congealing  blood.  A  cold  light  spread  along 
the  ground,  sweeping,  swift,  silent.  In  the 
blackness  of  the  gut,  9009  listened.  He  caught 
the  vague  stir  of  awakening  men  in  the  cell- 
house.  The  stir  grew,  became  detached  and  dis 
tinct  noises.  Doors  rang,  a  tread  of  feet  sound 
ed,  footsteps  came  down  the  alley;  two  trusties 
passed,  paused  in  front  of  the  cook-house,  cough- 

[151] 


9009 

ing  shiveringly,  then  entered.  He  heard  the  rasp 
of  a  match,  a  clang  of  stove-lids,  and  then  voices, 
muffled,  within.  In  a  few  minutes  the  day 
guards  would  be  dressed.  The  mackerel  sky 
above  settled  to  a  cold  drab;  9009  stepped  out 
silently  into  the  alley-way. 

He  stood  there  a  moment,  erect  and  motion 
less;  then  his  rifle  leaped  to  his  shoulder,  bel 
lowed,  and  the  blue-clad  guard  upon  the  wall 
toppled  over,  hung  on  the  edge  an  instant,  and 
slid  along  the  perpendicular  stones  to  a  huddle 
in  the  yard. 

And  9009  stepped  out  full  into  the  yard,  red- 
striped,  gaunt,  and  terrible.  He  walked  slowly, 
on  the  balls  of  his  feet,  his  body  inclined  for 
ward  from  the  waist,  his  chin,  pivoting  upon  his 
neck,  thrusting  itself  out  to  the  right,  to  the  left, 
as  he  strode;  and  in  his  right  hand  his  rifle,  held 
loosely,  like  a  hunter's. 

The  reverberation  of  the  shot  was  still  bound 
ing  from  building  to  building,  mingled  with  the 
echo  of  a  shout  which  had  followed.  A  shrill 
whistling  now  rose,  strident,  into  the  air.  A 

[152] 


9009 

white-faced  trusty  ran  out  of  the  cook-house; 
another.  9009  kept  on,  going  down  the  middle 
of  the  yard,  slowly,  looking  to  right  and  to  left. 
A  trusty  showed  his  head  at  the  door  of  the  cell- 
house.  9009  shot  him,  wantonly,  gleefully,  full 
in  the  face — a  long  shot,  but  he  could  not  miss, 
he  felt  he  could  not  miss,  never  miss.  A  flick  of 
dust  sprang  from  the  ground  at  his  feet,  over 
his  head  a  brief  snarl  passed,  almost  simultane 
ously  the  cracks  of  two  rifles  rang  heavy  be 
tween  the  walls;  he  grinned  and  pumped  a  new 
cartridge  into  the  breech  of  his  gun. 

And  then  he  began  to  run;  going  low,  he  made 
for  the  "  Stone  Building."  The  rifles  cracked 
again;  bullets  struck  to  his  right  and  to  his 
left.  He  reached  the  end  of  the  "  Stone  Build 
ing,"  halted,  gave  a  swift  look,  then  sprang  for 
ward  toward  the  wall  with  a  great  self-announ 
cing  yell.  He  reached  the  wall,  shot  along  it  like 
a  rabbit,  then,  when  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the 
men  above,  quietly  slipped  back  into  the  shadow 
of  the  "  Stone  Building."  A  laugh  cleft  his  face 
as  he  saw  the  guards  upon  the  wall,  back  toward 

[153] 


9009 

him,  peering  still  in  the  direction  from  which  he 
had  doubled.  Then,  in  successive  furtive  rushes, 
he  slid  back  to  the  alley  and  crouched  in  the  nar 
row  gut  between  cook-house  and  bakery,  waiting. 

He  had  accomplished  three  things  by  these 
movements.  By  shooting  the  guard  upon  the 
wall,  he  had  aroused  the  whole  prison,  includ 
ing  all  the  other  guards;  by  his  feigned  rush  to 
the  wall,  he  had  determined  just  to  what  point 
these  awakened  guards  should  throw  them 
selves  in  the  first  impulse  of  the  alarm;  by  his 
circuitous  doubling  back,  he  now  stood  where 
they  must  all  pass. 

In  spite  of  his  running,  he  was  breathing 
steadily;  his  muscles  were  like  steel;  and  he  was 
absolutely  sure  of  himself,  of  his  power  to  kill. 
He  laid  down  his  rifle  and  drew  his  revolver. 
He  waited  there,  all  alone  with  his  purpose, 
peering  out  of  the  black  gut.  The  whole  prison, 
now,  was  buzzing  about  him  like  a  beehive. 
Shouts  sounded,  gruff,  like  orders.  A  guard 
passed  by  on  the  run,  his  face  very  red;  two 
more,  putting  on  their  coats  as  they  ran;  a  whole 

[154] 


9009 

group  of  five.  He  still  waited.  There  was  an 
interval  of  silence;  again  the  drum  of  approach 
ing  feet.  He  peered — and  then  he  glided  out 
into  the  centre  of  the  alley  and  faced  Jennings. 

The  guard  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  step; 
and  the  two  men  stood  there  alone  in  the  desert 
alley,  in  the  wan  light  of  morning,  facing  each 
other,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

The  guard  was  half-dressed,  his  shirt  open  on 
his  hairy  chest,  his  suspenders  hanging  behind. 
His  eyes  narrowed,  then  widened;  a  flicker  of 
light  for  an  instant  sprang  into  them,  then  died 
at  once,  leaving  them  as  of  old,  lidless,  opaque, 
white-gray;  and  his  sallow  face  showed  no  emo 
tion,  though  slowly,  like  an  invisible  blush,  a 
dull  threat  rose  in  it.  9009  red-barred,  stood 
with  coarse-shod  feet  close  together,  bending 
slightly  forward  from  the  waist,  his  revolver  at 
the  end  of  his  arm,  held  with  crooked  elbow 
close  to  his  ribs;  and  in  his  face,  gray  with  the 
prison  pallor,  his  two  eyes  glowed  like  fires  at 
the  bottom  of  two  caves. 

They  stood  thus,  it  seemed  long,  motionless. 
[155] 


9009 

Then  the  guard  straightened  his  shoulders,  and 
he  half  smiled.  Immediately  he  was  very  seri 
ous  again;  and  then  he  spoke. 

"  Put  down  that  gun,"  he  said,  calmly,  evenly. 

The  upper  lip  of  9009  raised  like  a  theatre- 
curtain  and  showed  his  teeth.  It  remained 
raised. 

"  Drop  that  gun,"  said  Jennings  again,  his 
voice  like  furbished  steel;  and  a  film  came  over 
his  eyes. 

But  9009  was  not  listening;  he  was  absorbed 
in  another  problem.  He  was  trying  to  decide 
how  he  would  kill  Jennings.  His  first  impulse 
had  been  to  shoot  him  through  the  heart.  Then 
he  had  wanted  to  put  out  with  bullets  the  white- 
gray  eyes.  Then  he  had  almost  made  up  his 
mind  to  shoot  him  low  in  the  body,  so  that  he 
would  die  slowly  and  in  great  pain.  But  as 
he  stood  there,  frigid,  gun  in  hand,  a  profound 
dissatisfaction  of  these  methods  had  filled  his 
being.  Somehow,  none  fitted;  they  were  dis 
cordant,  all  of  them,  with  a  dream  he  had 
dreamed. 

[156] 


9009 

"  Put  down  that  gun,"  said  Jennings  for  the 
third  time. 

And  then  9009  knew. 

He  stooped,  laid  down  the  gun  upon  the 
ground,  and  snatched  at  his  waist-band.  He 
rose  to  a  crouch,  to  full  height,  and  his  right 
arm,  unfolding,  continued  the  upward  move 
ment.  He  stood  thus  a  moment,  motionless, 
straight,  shoulders  back,  head  back,  right  hand 
high  in  air.  Then  Jennings,  bending,  rushed 
forward,  and  9009  sprang  upon  him. 

He  sprang  high,  leap-frog  fashion;  his  left 
hand  snapped  down  Jennings's  lowered  head 
with  a  jerk,  and  now  the  other  hand,  still  high  in 
air,  whistled  down.  It  sank  into  the  guard's  back 
with  a  crunch.  It  rose,  fell,  rose,  fell,  rose  and 
fell,  rose  and  fell,  rose  and  fell  in  a  rapid  cres 
cendo  of  pumping  movement,  crunching  into  the 
heap  beneath  long  after  it  had  become  limp. 

Then  9009,  springing  lithely  to  his  feet,  flung 
the  file-knife  from  him  in  a  wide  gesture,  and 
picking  up  his  rifle,  strode  for  the  wall. 

[157] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

9009  picked  up  his  rifle  and  made  for  the  wall. 
There  were  two  guards  upon  it  at  the  point 
which  he  chose,  holding  their  rifles  in  both 
hands,  like  hunters  waiting  for  a  flock  of  quail 
to  rise,  and  they  fell  to  the  double  crack  of  his 
rifle  ere  they  could  pull  a  trigger.  One  dropped 
inside  the  yard,  the  other  hung,  quivering,  on 
the  edge  of  the  wall.  Unwinding  the  rope 
around  his  waist,  9009  threw  the  grappling  iron 
across  the  rail  of  the  guards'  walk,  and  hurling 
his  rifle  ahead  of  him,  climbed  swiftly  up  like  an 
ape.  He  paused  for  the  flicker  of  an  instant, 
there  on  the  top,  the  inside  of  the  prison  like  a 
diagram  beneath  him,  the  guard,  now  still,  at 
his  feet;  then,  disdainful  of  the  rope,  sprang 
down.  He  lit,  huddled,  by  his  rifle,  seized  it,  and 
then,  hunch-backed,  ran  for  the  hill.  Shots 
sounded  as  he  climbed,  bullets  whined  by  him, 

[158] 


9009 

but  he  reached  the  summit,  dived  over  it,  and 
scrambled  into  the  broad  road  at  the  point 
whence,  years  before,  his  coupled  wrist  raised 
by  the  garotter's  pointing  hand,  he  had  had 
first  sight  of  the  prison's  turreted  walls.  9009 
stopped  and  looked. 

It  was  near  winter,  but  the  drought  of  the  lin 
gering  fall  had  left  the  land  arid,  and  the  round 
ed  hill  still  rose  tawny  against  the  sky.  The 
prison  was  changed.  A  consternation  brooded 
in  its  battlemented  fagades;  within,  men  were 
running  to  and  fro,  criss-crossing,  aimlessly; 
and  from  the  guards'  wall,  near  a  turret,  three 
trusties  were  lowering  a  limp,  blue  form.  Be 
hind  and  above,  like  a  red  eye  crooked  in  its  or 
bit,  the  dead  sun  looked.  Throwing  both  hands 
up  into  the  air  and  brandishing  his  rifle,  John 
Collins  let  out  a  shrill  whoop  of  defiance  and 
hate;  then,  turning,  plunged  on  down  the  hill. 

To  the  south,  gray  beneath  a  gray  sky,  lay  the 
bay,  whipped  up  into  sudden  bursts  of  livid  fury 
by  cold  squalls.  Collins  kept  it  to  his  left  and 
made  for  the  edge  of  the  chaparral  lining  a 

1 159  ] 


9009 

patch  of  forest  to  the  west.  If  he  could  gain 
this,  the  immediate  pursuit  would  end,  and  there 
would  be  an  interval  of  rest  before  the  system 
atic  man-hunt  would  begin.  He  ran  across  the 
hills,  crackling  dry  with  the  drought,  a  strange, 
red-striped  animal  whose  eyes  flashed,  who  bent 
and  ducked  and  crouched  and  sought  hollows. 
Once  only  did  he  stop;  this  to  the  drumming  ap 
proach  of  a  guard,  who  had  been  able  to  obtain 
a  horse.  From  the  top  of  a  knoll  where  he  lay 
flat,  Collins  shot  down  the  guard,  then  went  on, 
leaving  the  well-trained  horse  standing  with 
long  bridle  dropped  to  the  ground  by  his  rider's 
reclining  form.  The  halt  had  given  him  a 
glimpse  of  other  blue-clad  guards  scattered  over 
the  land  to  the  rear;  he  threw  himself  on  with 
fresh  impetus,  and  it  was  gasping,  with  veins 
swollen,  that  he  reached  the  fringe  of  the  chap 
arral  just  as  the  sun,  definitively  breaking 
through  the  veil  of  morning  vapours,  began  to 
pour  its  yellow  heat  pitilessly  upon  the  yellow 
land. 

He  went  on  straight  till  among  the  pines,  then 
[160] 


9000 

turned  to  the  right  toward  the  north.  The  city, 
which  was  his  goal,  lay  to  the  south;  yet  till 
noon,  for  ten  miles,  he  travelled  straight  north. 
During  that  time  he  showed  himself  only  three 
times. 

The  first  time  was  at  a  farm-house — a  small, 
weather-beaten  house  in  the  centre  of  a  clearing, 
to  which  he  came  just  after  the  breakfast  hour. 
A  clatter  of  dishes,  the  song  of  a  woman's  voice, 
met  him  as  he  approached.  He  stood  in  the 
doorway,  red-barred,  sullen-jawed,  the  rifle  in 
hand;  and  the  song  died  in  a  high  quaver. 

"Gimme  food,"  he  growled;  "quick!" 

The  woman  stared  at  him,  white-faced,  the 
dish  that  she  had  been  wiping  held  tight  against 
her  breast.  He  scowled;  the  dish  fell  to  the 
floor  in  twenty  fragments. 

"  Quick! " 

Without  a  word,  she  turned  to  the  pantry. 

"An'  don't  squeak,"  he  went  on;  "if  ye  do, 
I'H  cut  your  head  off." 

She  placed  the  food  before  him  on  the  table 
— bread,  meat,  potatoes,  milk,  a  pot  of  luke- 

[161] 


9009 

warm  coffee.  He  gulped  it  down  like  a  dog, 
watching  all  the  time  the  woman  through  nar 
rowed  lids.  Once,  at  some  noise  in  the  yard,  he 
took  up  his  rifle  and  glided  a-tiptoe  to  the  win 
dow.  He  stood  there  a  moment,  peering  out; 
meanwhile,  the  woman  took  hold  of  the  table 
with  both  hands,  leaning  forward  heavily,  her 
eyes  closed;  but  as  he  turned  and  went  back  to 
the  food,  she  stood  up  again,  very  stiff. 

When  he  had  done  eating,  he  crammed  under 
his  jacket  the  meat  and  bread  that  remained, 
strode  out,  and  vanished  in  the  woods. 

An  hour  later  he  heard  the  sound  of  an  axe. 
He  crept  toward  it  through  the  undergrowth 
and  saw  a  wood-chopper  working  over  a  fallen 
log.  The  man's  shirt  was  open  on  his  chest;  his 
face  was  red  and  shiny,  and  at  each  stroke  he 
uttered  a  sound  between  a  grunt  and  a  shout. 
"  Huh-huh-huh,"  he  said  as  he  chopped.  Collins 
rose  before  him  as  the  axe  rose — and  the  wood- 
chopper  became  a  statue  poised  with  axe  high 
in  air. 

"  Put  down  that  axe,"  Collins  growled. 
[162] 


9009 

The  chopper  dropped  the  axe. 

"  Now,  take  off  your  clothes,"  said  Collins. 
The  chopper  began  to  strip.  But  when  he  had 
pulled  off  his  shirt,  an  abrupt  change  came  over 
him.  "  Say,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  eh? 
What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  shouted. 

His  face  was  aflame,  his  eyes  glistened;  he 
doubled  up  his  fists.  Instantly  the  fists  loosened 
and  sprang  high  over  his  head  as  with  a  smart 
tap  the  muzzle  of  Collins's  rifle  settled  against 
his  stomach.  "  Oh,  all  right,  all  right,"  he  said  in 
subdued  tone;  "  all  right,  all  right,  don't  shoot." 
Then  slowly,  as  if  in  an  aside  directed  to  the 
trees:  "For  God's  sake!" 

A  moment  later  Collins  crashed  out  through 
the  brush  clad  in  the  garments  of  a  workingman, 
leaving  the  wood-chopper  in  the  clearing,  naked 
before  a  striped  huddle  at  which  he  gazed  with 
indecision  and  disgust. 

These  short  apparitions,  Collins  found,  had 
been  sufficient  to  his  plan.  The  chase  was  press 
ing  up  northward.  Once,  throwing  himself  into 
the  ditch  beside  the  county  road,  he  let  pass 

[163] 


9009 

two  blue-clad  guards  on  horseback,  going  swift 
ly,  bent  forward  in  their  saddles.  Later,  from 
a  knoll  he  saw  a  whole  sheriff's  posse  trot  by, 
shining  with  newly  distributed  badges,  clatter 
ing  with  weapons — sawed-off  shot-guns,  repeat 
ing  rifles,  six-shooters.  The  bead  of  his  gun  was 
upon  the  little  band,  playfully  springing  from 
one  to  the  other,  but  he  did  not  shoot. 

He  came  upon  them  again  at  noon,  in  a  little 
town  consisting  of  a  general  merchandise  store, 
a  saloon,  a  post-office,  and  a  huddle  of  cottages. 
They  were  gathered  in  a  picturesque  group  on 
the  high  wooden  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  saloon, 
tilted  back  on  rawhide  chairs,  or  standing  about 
with  clanging  spurs,  their  rifles  against  the  wall, 
their  horses  tied  to  the  rack  in  the  street,  a  cir 
cle  of  admiring  urchins  about  them.  The  leader, 
a  big,  jovial  man,  was  speaking  vociferously 
amid  a  popping  of  small  boastful  interruptions, 
when  Collins,  gun  in  hand,  chin  thrust  forward, 
walked  in  down  the  middle  of  the  main  street. 
A  small  boy,  with  a  shout,  raised  his  arm,  point 
ing;  the  men  sprang  to  their  feet. 

[164] 


9009 

And  then,  right  from  the  hip,  Collins's  rifle 
cracked;  the  big,  jovial  man  pitched  forward  on 
his  face.  The  rifle  leaped  to  Collins's  shoulder, 
and  with  his  right  arm  suddenly  limp,  another 
man  of  the  group  staggered  into  the  saloon.  Be 
hind  him  the  rest  of  the  posse  jammed,  fighting 
to  get  in.  Only  one  made  for  the  rifles,  stacked 
against  the  wall,  and  Collins  toppled  him  over 
just  as  his  hand  was  upon  the  nearest.  Run 
ning  low,  Collins  made  for  the  horses.  He  un 
tied  them,  scattered  them,  all  but  one,  with  a 
fusillade  from  his  revolver,  sprang  upon  the  one 
he  held,  and  galloped  out  of  the  town — still  go 
ing  north.  Two  miles  away,  he  led  the  horse 
down  the  bed  of  a  brook  into  a  ravine,  tied  him 
to  a  tree,  and  then,  afoot,  doubled  back  toward 
the  south,  toward  the  city,  his  goal,  at  last. 

He  travelled  the  rest  of  the  day  as  few  men 
have  ever  travelled — running,  leaping,  walking 
swiftly,  always  silent,  always  flitting  forward 
without  rest.  Only  twice  did  he  stop,  to  watch 
from  some  hiding-place,  along  the  barrel  of  his 
rifle,  posses  going  by;  one  was  led  by  the  sheriff 

[165] 


9009 

who  six  years  before  had  taken  him  to  the 
prison,  a  grizzly  fellow  with  a  long  moustache, 
and  wearing  a  sombrero;  both  times  the  posses 
were  going  northward,  so  that  he  had  to  master 
his  desire  to  kill.  Dusk  came,  and  he  pressed 
on,  reeking  with  sweat,  but  unweary,  the  mon 
strous  glare-dome  of  the  city  ahead.  Finally,  the 
glow  resolved  itself  into  details,  and  he  trotted 
in  between  two  rows  of  street-lamps. 

Almost  immediately  he  came  upon  a  police 
man.  The  man,  a  big,  burly  hulk,  was  walking 
slowly,  twirling  his  stick,  his  helmet  slightly 
tilted  back.  Collins  dropped  into  a  blind  alley. 

"  Here,  come  out  of  there,  you,"  growled  the 
policeman,  half  jocosely;  "  come  out,  come  on, 
I  want  to  see  you!" 

Collins  stepped  out  and  without  raising  his 
arm  shot  him.  The  policeman  sat  down  with  an 
astonished  expression,  coughed,  and  lay  back 
on  the  sidewalk.  Collins  went  on  at  a  rapid  si 
lent  walk  to  the  next  street,  and,  turning,  ran. 
To  his  ear  came  the  shrill  affrighted  cry  of  a 
police  whistle.  From  the  right  another  came; 

[166] 


9009 

from  the  left.  He  ran,  smoothly  and  carefully, 
his  ears  taut  to  the  rasping  whistles,  his  eyes 
piercing  the  shadows  ahead. 

A  milk-wagon  rattled  across  his  way  as  he 
came  to  a  corner.  He  sprang  toward  it;  the 
muzzle  of  his  rifle  touched  the  driver.  The  man 
drew  in,  and  Collins  leaped  up  by  his  side.  They 
rattled  noisily  down  the  deserted  streets  wanly 
lit  up  by  rare  gas-lamps.  The  whistlings  dwin 
dled,  ceased.  Several  times  they  passed  police 
men,  frozen  figures  upon  their  beats.  Collins's 
rifle  lay  beneath  the  seat, 'but  the  muzzle  of  his 
revolver,  all  the  time,  was  against  the  ribs  of 
the  driver,  who  handled  the  reins  to  Collins's 
fierce  whispers.  They  went  a  tortuous  way 
through  a  district  of  fine  residences  where  the 
close  lights  gleamed  upon  broad  asphalt  ave 
nues;  then  the  houses  on  both  sides  began  to  di 
minish  in  size  and  wealth.  He  left  the  wagon 
and  went  on  at  a  walk. 

The  houses  became  smaller  and  humbler;  he 
went  by  the  shadowy  walls  of  a  gas  tank, 
crossed  a  network  of  railway  tracks,  entered  a 

[167] 


9009 

narrow  street  lined  with  dingy  cottages,  and 
turned  a  corner.  It  was  years  since  he  had  come 
this  way,  and  then  he  had  had  a  guide;  but  he 
had  not  forgotten  a  detail  of  the  street.  He 
went  on  without  hesitation  and  knocked  at  the 
door  of  a  small  cottage,  newly  painted  red. 
There  was  a  long  silence,  then  a  stir,  and  the 
door  opened.  Tom  Ryan  faced  him,  Tom  Ryan, 
the  friend  of  his  boyhood,  with  whom  he  had 
eaten  shortly  before  his  last  arrest,  the  hod-car 
rier  whose  security,  then,  he  had  envied. 

Tom  Ryan's  face  was  very  white,  and  his  face 
was  no  welcome.  He  stood  at  the  door  and 
stared  with  eyes  that  showed  fear,  at  the  man 
he  had  known  in  boyhood.  Suddenly  a  gulp 
came  in  his  throat.  "  Good  God,"  he  said, 
"  you're  not  John  Collins,  John,  are  you?  You're 
not  John  Collins,  are  you,  John?  Oh,  my  God!" 

Collins  caught  the  look,  the  fear,  the  shocked 
surprise.  "  Yes,  it's  me,"  he  said,  anger  flaming 
through  him.  "  What  sort  of  a  hand-out  is  this 
you're  giving  me?  Do  I  get  in?  " 

And  roughly  he  pushed  within.  The  door 
[168] 


9009 

closed  behind  them;  they  were  in  the  narrow 
hallway,  which  smelled  of  must  and  cookery. 
"Good  God,"  muttered  Ryan;  "I  didn't  think 
you'd  look  like  this;  not  like  this!"  Through 
the  jar  of  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  hall, 
with  the  stifling  odour  of  a  room  at  once  kitchen 
and  nursery,  came  a  streak  of  yellow  lamp-light. 
In  the  faint  glow  the  two  men  looked  at  each 
other,  the  hod-carrier  with  shoulders  white  with 
plaster  and  face  white  with  emotion,  the  mur 
derer  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  corroded  brow, 
his  mouth  like  a  straight  blue  scar.  Ryan  was 
trembling.  "  Man,"  he  said,  "  what  have  you 
been  doing!  I  never  looked  for  anything  like 
that  when  I  told  Nell  I'd  help  ye! " 

John  Collins  was  silent  for  a  moment;  with  a 
certain  astonishment  he  saw  the  horror  in  the 
other's  face.  A  scowl  deepened  his  brows. 

"Done!"  he  muttered.  "Done — that's  noth 
ing  to  what  I'll  be  doin'  to  ye  if  ye  don't  shut  up 
that  jaw  of  yours.  Is  that  all  ye've  to  say  to 
me  " — his  voice  rose — "  is  that  all,  eh?  And 
Nell,  Where's  Nell?" 

[169] 


9009 

A  stir  came  from  the  room  at  the  bottom  of 
the  hallway,  then  the  thin  wail  of  a  baby.  Ryan 
raised  his  hand. 

"  Sh-sh-sh,"  he  hissed,  and  made  a  warning 
gesture.  "  Sh-sh-sh;  the  old  woman,  she  don't 
know.  I  done  it  fer  you — was  willing  you  meet 
here.  But  I  didn't  know  you'd  do  that,  not  that. 
And  the  papers  full  of  it — I  don't  know — God 
help  me,"  he  ended  with  a  groan. 

"Where's  Nell?"  said  Collins,  and  he  shook 
Eyan  by  the  shoulders;  "  where's  Nell;  quick; 
Where's  Nell?" 

"  She  was  to  be  here — let  go,  man,  let  go  my 
shoulder — she's  not  come.  Wish  to  God  she 
had — I  never  knew  'twould  come  to  this — be 
still — for  God's  sake  don't  go  in  there,  not  in 
there!" 

But  Collins,  brushing  him  aside,  had  strode 
into  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Ryan  was  bending  over  the  cradle — the 
same  cradle  where  she  had  bent  years  before, 
and  it  was  in  the  same  corner,  and  from  it  came 
the  acid  cry  of  her  last  born.  Side  by  side,  by 

[170] 


90O9 

the  cradle,  were  three  cots;  upon  the  pillows  of 
two  were  the  grimy  blond  heads  of  two  older 
children;  but  one  child,  the  eldest,  a  girl,  had 
fallen  asleep  in  her  chair;  her  head,  pillowed  on 
her  arms,  lay  amid  the  unwashed  dishes  of  the 
table,  half-hidden  by  the  large  leaves  of  a  news 
paper  sprawled  loosely  across. 

"  Sh-sh-sh,  the  babe,  the  babe,"  Mrs.  Ryan  was 
murmuring,  holding  up  with  her  left  hand  a 
corner  of  a  little  blanket;  and  then,  looking  be 
neath  her  arm  at  the  sound  of  entering  feet,  she 
caught  sight  of  the  sinister  figure  behind  her. 
She  whirled  around,  in  one  bound  placed  herself 
before  the  beds,  her  face  lit  up  with  a  white 
ferocity;  and  she  shot  both  clenched  hands  for 
ward  in  a  movement  half  sign  of  aversion,  half 
blow.  Collins  shrank  from  the  gesture. 

"  Go  away,"  she  cried,  "  from  this  room.  Get 
out  of  sight  of  these  children,  you  " — her  breast 
swelled,  then  the  words  came  slowly,  drawn 
deep  from  her  thick  chest — "  you  murrdhering 
monster! " 

Collins  clenched  his  fist  and  scowled  at  Ryan, 
[171] 


9009 

now  come  within  the  room.  "  Shut  up  that 
woman,"  he  said. 

Ryan  went  to  his  wife  and  placed  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder;  but  she  stared  straight  ahead  over 
his,  at  Collins,  her  breast  heaving. 

And  on  the  table  Collins  saw  the  newspaper, 
an  evening  edition  marked  "  Extra  "  in  black  af 
frighted  letters,  and  across  the  page  in  great 
red  letters  was  his  name,  and  in  a  frame,  the 
names  of  the  men  he  had  killed — five — and 
those  he  had  wounded — three  more. 

"Ye  murrdhering  monster,"  panted  Mrs.  Ryan, 
following  the  movement  of  his  eyes. 

From  the  porch  outside  there  came  a  faint 
shuffling  of  feet.  Collins  crouched,  his  hand 
went  to  his  waist-band,  the  heavy  black  revolver 
flew  out.  "  One  more  sound,"  he  said — and  his 
voice  became  low  with  steady  menace — "  and 
I'll  blow  out  the  heads  of  every  wan  of  you." 

One  of  the  children  raised  up  in  her  cot;  she 
gazed  round-eyed  at  the  strange  man  above  her, 
and  began  to  cry.  Without  changing  her  posi 
tion,  Mrs.  Ryan  dropped  her  hand  and  twined 

[172] 


9009 

a  curl  about  her  finger  in  soothing  caress.    The 
child  was  stilled. 

Collins  scowled  at  them — at  the  mother, 
standing  there,  one  hand  soothing,  her  whole 
body  tense  before  her  children,  a  defense,  a  bar 
rier;  at  the  man,  red-faced,  perplexed,  horror- 
stricken  yet  pitying;  at  the  child  up  in  its  cot,  at 
the  child  sleeping  with  its  head  among  the  dishes 
on  the  table.  Then,  warning  them  once  more  in 
terrible  and  grotesque  pantomime  with  his  re 
volver,  he  stepped  backward  through  the  door, 
which  immediately  slammed  shut  upon  the  group, 
petrified  in  bronze  attitudes. 

Out  in  the  hallway,  he  wheeled  and  covered  the 
outer  door,  which  was  opening.  It  shut  again. 
A  woman  had  come  in.  "  Nell,"  he  whispered. 

She  was  by  his  side,  in  the  darkness,  putting 
something  in  his  hand.  "  Quick! "  she  said. 

He  opened  the  box  and  dropped  the  rifle  car 
tridges  loose  into  his  pocket.  She  gave  him  an 
other  one. 

"Quick!"  she  said  again;  "the  place's  going 
to  be  shadowed." 

[173] 


9009 

He  grasped  the  thing  that  she  gave  him. 

"  All  I  could  get,"  she  whispered;  "  all  I  could 
get;  two  years7  stealin's." 

It  was  a  bundle  of  bank-notes.  To  the  touch 
an  old  forgotten  feeling  swept  hot  through  him. 
"  Who's  keepin'  you?  Who're  you  hanging  up 
with?  "  he  growled,  his  iron  fingers  sinking  into 
her  shoulder. 

She  was  against  him;  in  the  semi-obscurity  he 
could  see  her  face,  worn  now;  it  was  turned  up 
to  him  wide-eyed. 

"  I  couldn't  do  it  alone,  John,"  she  said,  in  a 
wondering  tone;  "/  couldn't  climb  walls  and 
plant  guns;  I  couldn't  do  that,  John." 

He  thrust  her  aside  and  started  for  the  door. 
Her  two  hands  half  went  out  after  him  in  an 
unvoluntary  detaining  gesture,  but  "  Quick,"  she 
whispered,  fiercely;  "quick,  for  the  hills!" 

The  door  swept  open;  he  plunged  down  the 
steps  as  if  into  a  black  sea;  his  feet  did  not 
sound;  there  was  immediate  silence. 

"  He's  gone,"  she  said,  there  alone,  in  the  still 
dark  hallway. 

[174] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

THREE  weeks  later,  limping  along  a  road  a 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  south  of  the  city,  John 
Collins  stopped,  listened  intently  with  frowning 
brows,  and  then,  climbing  up  a  bank,  crawled 
into  the  chaparral  and  instantly  fell  asleep. 

In  three  weeks  he  had  gone  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  in  a  straight  line,  but  he  had  travelled 
probably  a  thousand — running,  trotting,  doub 
ling,  dodging,  ambushing,  killing.  His  goal  had 
been  to  the  east;  time  and  time  again  he  had 
made  a  desperate  dash  for  the  Sierra,  snow 
capped  in  the  distance,  the  Sierra,  with  its  pro 
fundity  of  forest,  its  intimacy  of  valleys,  its 
secrecy  of  meadows,  with  its  running  water,  its 
game,  its  sheep-herders,  half-mad  with  solitude; 
and  each  time  he  had  been  headed  off  and  slid 
on  farther  down  the  coast.  But  this  morning 
he  had  seen  before  him  a  hill-range  coming  high- 

[175] 


9009 

peaked  to  the  sea;  this  was  now  his  goal.  From 
the  place  where  he  slept,  the  land  fell  off  to  the 
south  in  a  broad  valley  golden-hazed  at  the  bot 
tom  with  unleafed  willows,  then  rose  again  in 
long  elastic  jumps  to  a  first  crest,  tumbled 
abruptly  into  a  black  canon,  and  leaped  up  per 
pendicularly  to  a  final  summit  dark  with  pines 
and  promising  of  impenetrable  recesses. 

And  behind  him,  to  the  north,  men  were  hunt 
ing.  For  three  weeks  he  had  been  pursued  as  a 
wild  animal,  with  growing  savagery  of  purpose, 
with  increase  of  cunning,  by  greater  numbers. 
The  whole  State,  aroused,  was  buzzing  about 
him  like  a  beehive.  Hundreds  of  men,  armed  as 
he  was,  clamoured  on  his  trail.  Some  had  seen 
him;  it  was  a  sudden  vision,  instantaneous  and 
flitting  as  the  revelation  of  a  photographer's 
flashlight — a  grinning  mask,  a  savage  eye  glint 
ing  along  a  rifle-barrel — and  then  men  died,  men 
with  fingers  upon  triggers,  before  they  could 
pull  a  trigger.  The  farmers  in  the  fields 
worked  with  rifles  in  their  hands,  with  pistols, 
with  pitchforks;  children  armed  with  shot-guns 

[176] 


9009 

watched  in  the  kitchens  while  their  mothers 
cooked;  the  officers  of  five  counties  at  the  head 
of  posses  tracked  him  indefatigably;  and  lead 
ing  them  all  was  the  best  man-hunter  of  the 
State — the  grizzled,  keen-eyed  sheriff  who,  years 
before,  had  taken  John  Collins  to  prison. 
Twice,  close-pressed  Collins  had  seen  him,  with 
his  broad  sombrero,  his  black  moustache, 
streaked  with  gray;  but  neither  time  had  he  had 
the  chance  to  kill  him. 

The  elements,  also,  had  conspired  against  the 
fleeing  convict. 

For  the  first  week,  the  drought  had  perse 
vered.  He  had  travelled  through  a  parched  and 
arid  land.  The  sun  poured  like  molten  lead 
upon  his  bare  head;  dust  lay  about  him  like  a 
suffocation;  it  piled  on  the  roads,  sifted  through 
the  holes  in  his  shoes,  burning  his  feet;  it  caked 
his  dry  lips;  it  inflamed  his  eyes;  he  had  suf 
fered  thirst. 

Then  the  long-delayed  rains  had  come.  The 
leaden  vault  of  the  sky  had  burst,  letting  down 
upon  him  the  upper  reservoirs.  For  a  week  he 

[177] 


9009 

had  been  wet,  persistently,  all  of  the  time;  he 
had  travelled  in  ooze;  his  clothes  had  clung  cold 
about  his  limbs,  paralysing  them;  he  had  slept 
in  puddles;  and  always,  like  a  persecution  with 
him,  went  the  necessity  of  caring  for  his  gun — 
of  seeing  that  it  be  not  wet,  that  it  rust  not, 
that  it  stay  smoothly  working,  well-oiled,  swiftly 
ready  to  kill. 

He  had  borne  these  things  with  alacrity.  A 
feeling  of  phenomenal  endurance  had  exalted 
him.  All  the  time,  in  want,  in  hunger,  in  thirst, 
in  heat  or  cold,  in  pursuit  or  short  respite,  kill 
ing  or  hiding,  he  had  felt  that  he  could  go  on 
thus  forever;  that  his  nerves  were  steel,  his  mus 
cles  iron,  that  nobody,  nothing,  God  Himself, 
now  could  ever  bring  him  down.  When  he  shot, 
it  was  by  reflex,  with  utmost  surety,  his  game 
looming  large  as  a  mountain  against  the  bead  of 
his  rifle. 

But  the  last  few  days,  something  insidious 
had  attacked  him — something  that  he  felt  but 
vaguely,  that  he  could  not  name,  but  which  he 
distrusted  profoundly. 

-  [  178  ] 


9009 

A  few  days  before,  the  rains  had  ceased,  and 
the  sun  had  shone  again. 

It  shone  through  an  air  that  was  as  old-gold 
dust,  upon  a  wet  land  along  the  surface  of  which 
trailed  silver  hazes;  upon  a  warm,  moist  land 
which  panted  to  its  touch,  exhaling  sighs  humid 
and  soft  and  fragrant  as  the  breath  of  kine. 
Overnight  a  giant  painter  seemed  to  work  with 
broad  sure  brush.  The  landscape,  yellow  and 
smooth  as  if  gold-lacquered  at  sunset,  at  sunrise 
was  tinted  in  lavenders;  the  next  morning  it  was 
light  green;  the  next  morning  it  was  dark  green; 
and  in  the  fields,  on  the  roads  by  the  side  of  the 
ruts,  at  first  a  mere  verdant  mustiness,  the 
grass  was  springing,  numerous,  strong  and  ser 
ried,  as  to  the  commanding  stamp  of  some  fan 
tastic  foot.  Here  and  there,  on  some  rounded 
hill,  a  ploughman  showed,  a  poster  ploughman 
behind  four  poster  horses;  he  rolled  up  in  his 
share,  as  though  it  were  ribbon,  long  strips  of 
emerald  sward,  turning  up  to  the  sun  the  deeper 
land,  tinged  with  red,  with  the  red  of  its  prof 
fered  generous  blood.  A  heaviness  was  in  the 

[179] 


9009 

air;  at  the  slightest  movement,  sweat  poured  out 
upon  Collins's  body;  a  listlessness  was  in  his 
limbs,  a  listlessness  that  was  not  unpleasant,  but 
which  worried  him;  his  veins,  swollen  as  were 
the  streams,  as  were  the  budding  twigs,  ran 
with  a  torpor,  a  peace  almost,  which  he  fought; 
at  times  a  softness  came  to  him,  a  vague  mourn- 
fulness,  which  was  not  bitter,  which  was  almost 
sweet,  which  relaxed  his  sinews,  his  nerves,  his 
vigilance — his  hate  almost.  It  was  something 
subtle  and  inexplicable,  something  at  which  he 
growled,  but  that  he  could  not  resist,  something 
which  he  distrusted,  but  could  not  conquer. 

And  now  it  was  with  him  as  he  slept,  there  in 
the  chaparral,  by  the  roadway.  This  it  was 
which  caused  him  to  lie  loosely  asprawl  on  his 
back,  his  rifle  almost  beyond  reach,  his  right  arm 
across  his  eyes;  it  made  him  breathe  deep;  it  lay 
about  him  like  a  warm  soothing  bath. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  rain,  by  a  cunning  re 
doubled  doubling,  he  had  gained  half  a  day  on 
the  leading  posse,  led  by  the  sheriff.  Since  that, 
torpid  with  the  new  influence,  he  had  been  con- 

[180] 


9009 

tent  to  plod  straight  ahead,  holding  the  gained 
advantage.  This  morning  he  had  decided  to 
give  up  two  hours  of  it  to  sleep.  He  had  lain 
down  with  the  intention  of  sleeping  two  hours, 
fitfully,  on  the  watch,  like  a  dog,  as  was  his 
way. 

But  now  he  was  sleeping  profoundly,  on  his 
back,  his  arm  across  his  eyes,  his  rifle  carelessly 
rolled  ten  feet  away.  An  hour  passed;  he  still 
slept.  Another,  and  he  still  slept.  A  mile  be 
hind,  a  group  of  horsemen  came  along  the  road 
slowly. 

Their  eyes  were  bloodshot,  the  mud  lay  caked 
in  the  stubble  of  their  unshaven  faces,  and  they 
shifted  uneasily  in  their  deep  saddles.  Ahead, 
like  a  vidette,  scanning  the  way,  rode  a  keen- 
eyed  man,  with  dark  moustache  grayly  streaked, 
a  sombrero  upon  his  grizzled  head.  He  bent  low, 
along  the  flank  of  his  horse,  stopped  the  animal, 
bent  lower,  looking  into  tHe  drying  mud  of  the 
road,  then  spoke  a  few  muttered  words  to  the 
men  who  now  were  about  him.  Immediately 
they  tensed;  weariness  fled  them.  And  John 

[181] 


9009 

Collins,  in  the  brush  a  mile  ahead,  became  fitful 
in  his  sleep. 

The  horses  raised  their  heads  to  the  reins  and 
began  to  trot.  The  riders,  rising  in  their  saddles, 
looked  ahead,  their  rifles  in  their  right  hands 
ready  for  use.  An  animal  stumbled  in  the  rear; 
the  rider  cursed,  and  the  sheriff  silenced  him 
with  a  potent  look.  They  were  within  half  a 
mile  of  the  sleeper  now;  he  awoke  suddenly. 

He  awoke,  listened,  then  crept  through  the 
brush  to  the  summit  of  a  little  knoll  and 
looked. 

He  saw  them — the  sheriff  and  his  posse — com 
ing  down  the  road.  He  looked  toward  the  east, 
up  the  valley;  from  this  direction  another  group 
of  horsemen  was  approaching.  The  two  posses 
were  drawing  an  angle  of  which  he  was  the  apex. 
And  three  miles  away  to  the  south  lay  the  moun 
tains,  black  with  pines,  impenetrable  to  search; 
he  had  slept  at  their  very  feet  while  the  hunters 
came  upon  him.  He  cursed — but  even  as  he 
cursed  a  subtle  indifference,  a  carelessness,  was 
within  him. 

[182] 


9009 

A  short  distance  ahead  of  the  point  where  he 
now  stood,  between  it  and  the  posse  coming 
slowly  down  the  valley,  a  fainter  road  crossed 
toward  the  hills  he  sought.  At  a  bend,  in  a  lit 
tle  hollow  shaded  by  a  live-oak,  a  mossy  water 
ing-trough  dripped,  and  toward  the  trough  a  boy 
was  riding  at  a  walk,  on  a  young  horse,  bare 
back.  Bending  low,  Collins  glided  through  the 
brush,  down  the  hillside,  and  gained  a  patch  of 
woods  that,  paralleling  the  main  road  along 
which  the  two  posses  were  converging,  extended 
to  the  trough.  He  stepped  out  of  the  fringe  of 
willows  just  as  the  boy  brought  his  horse  to  a 
stop  beneath  the  live-oak.  Men's  voices  came  to 
him  from  the  junction  of  the  roads,  one  hundred 
yards  away;  the  posse  from  up  the  valley  was 
passing  it. 

The  boy,  startled,  threw  his  eyes  toward  the 
crackling  twigs  and  looked  into  the  muzzle  of 
the  rifle.  "  Get  off  that  horse,"  Collins  said,  and 
took  a  step  toward  the  trough. 

The  boy  slid  to  the  ground  along  the  horse's 
gleaming  flank;  the  man,  watching  him  narrow- 

[183] 


9009 

ly,  his  rifle  at  the  hip,  lowered  his  head  and 
drank. 

A  shout  came  from  the  road.  The  two  posses 
had  met.  Voices  mingled  in  surprise;  then  in 
loud  discussion.  Collins  took  a  step  backward 
into  the  willows. 

"  Where's  water  in  them  hills?  "  he  asked  the 
boy,  jerking  his  thumb  toward  the  mountains 
across  the  valley,  to  the  south. 

The  boy  pointed  to  a  rounded  summit,  crowned 
with  black  pines,  across  the  valley,  to  the  south. 

Collins  raised  his  rifle,  clubbed.  He  knew  that 
he  must  kill  the  boy;  all  through  his  flight  this 
had  been  his  rigid  line  of  conduct:  to  kill  those 
from  whom  he  obtained  information  according 
to  which  he  must  act. 

But  now,  at  this  moment  of  peril,  with  the 
voices  of  the  posses  floating  clear  to  him  on  the 
quiet  air,  the  feeling  that  had  been  with  him 
since  the  cessation  of  the  rain  enwrapped  him 
subtly — an  indifference  it  was,  a  weariness,  a 
laziness — he  didn't  know  what  it  was;  but  it 
made  him  say: 

[184] 


9009 

"If  I  don't  kill  you,  will  you  keep  still?" 

The  boy  nodded  mutely. 

A  grimace  suddenly  distended  the  fugitive's 
cracked  face,  a  strange  grimace,  like  the  de 
crepit  contortion  of  what  might  once  have  been 
a  smile;  and  his  eyes  lit  up,  lit  up  with  some 
thing  that  might  have  been  the  shadow  of  a 
softness.  "Cross  your  heart  and  die?"  he 
asked. 

The  boy  crossed  his  heart,  his  staring  face 
very  serious. 

Collins  leaped  upon  the  horse  and  was  off. 

He  did  not  ride  toward  the  mountain  to  which 
the  boy  had  pointed.  He  turned  his  back  to  it, 
made  for  the  main  road  down  which  had  passed 
the  second  posse,  swung  into  it,  and  went  up  the 
valley,  at  right  angles  to  the  course  that  would 
take  him  to  his  goal.  As  he  turned  into  the  main 
road,  a  yell  hacl  sounded.  Another  rose  now;  a 
rifle  cracked.  He  had  been  seen  by  some  mem 
ber  of  the  posses.  He  rounded  a  sharp  double- 
turn  beneath  the  branches  of  a  sycamore  which 
scraped  him  as  he  passed,  and  a  long  ribbon  of 
'[  185  ] 


9009 

road  stretched  level  before  him.  The  horse  was 
young  and  fresh;  Collins  bent  forward,  his  face 
almost  between  its  ears,  and  to  his  mutter 
it  leaped  in  great  bounds.  Behind,  the  yells 
ceased;  they  were  superseded  by  a  drumming  of 
hoofs,  steady,  constant  like  a  buzzing;  at  times 
bullets  cried  wild  overhead.  The  planking  of  a 
bridge  reverberated  hollow  beneath  him;  he 
rounded  another  turn.  This  time,  when  he  had 
gone  three  hundred  yards  beyond  it,  he  brought 
his  horse  up  in  three  short  cow-pony  jumps, 
wheeled  it  around  at  a  stand,  raised  his  rifle, 
and  waited  for  the  first  man  to  make  the  turn. 

It  was  as  he  had  expected.  The  first  horse 
man  was  the  sheriff;  riding  strongly  but  calmly, 
the  rim  of  his  sombrero  blowing  back,  his  face 
very  grim.  Collins  held  the  bead  of  his  rifle 
against  him  longer  than  was  necessary  (all 
through  his  flight  he  had  fired  from  all  angles, 
in  all  positions,  with  absolute  accuracy);  he 
chuckled  as  he  pulled  the  trigger;  then,  without 
waiting  to  look,  whirled  his  horse  under  him  and 
sprang  forward  again. 

[186] 


9009 

After  a  while,  looking  beneath  his  arm-pit,  he 
saw  vaguely  a  man  riding  after  him,  a  man  with 
a  sombrero.  He  turned  and  looked  fair.  It  was  , 
the  sheriff,  riding  strongly  but  calmly,  his  som 
brero  rim  flapping,  his  face  very  grim;  he  had 
missed  the  sheriff. 

It  was  the  first  time  since  he  had  the  rifle  that 
he  had  missed.  Heretofore  the  gun  had  leaped 
to  his  hip,  to  his  shoulder,  by  reflex  and  had 
blazed  death  always.  It  had  been  impossible  to 
miss;  in  his  eyes  the  game  had  loomed  up  like  a 
mountain.  And  now  he  had  missed.  A  fear 
came  upon  him;  a  fear  as  of  the  supernatural; 
clubbing  his  horse  with  the  butt  of  the  faithless 
weapon  he  urged  it  forward  at  greater  speed; 
it  was  beginning  to  pant  now. 

The  road  was  rising  with  the  floor  of  the  val 
ley.  Ahead  on  either  side  lay  half-ploughed 
fields;  he  saw  men  bent  over  their  ploughs  be 
hind  four-horse  teams.  One  of  the  teams  stopped 
abruptly;  the  ploughman  ran  to  his  horses,  fum 
bled  at  the  traces.  Another  man,  to  the  left, 
was  doing  the  same  thing.  And  then,  from  each 

[187] 


9009 

arrested  plough  with  its  drooping-headed  ani 
mals,  a  horse  detached  itself,  traces  dragging 
loose  behind,  the  ploughman  on  its  back,  and 
loped  with  lumbering  steps  toward  the  road. 
And  Collins  caught  a  glint  of  shot-gun  barrels. 
A  shout  came  from  behind;  Collins  turned  his 
head;  three  more  ponderous  beasts,  mounted  by 
farmers  lustful  for  the  hunt,  were  coming  across 
the  fields,  traces  flying  behind,  spurning  with 
their  broad  hoofs  shining  clods.  Again  he  struck 
his  horse  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle — and  the 
breath  began  to  whistle  in  its  throat.  A  bullet 
snarled  by,  close  to  his  head;  from  the  upper 
window  of  a  farm-house  a  shot-gun  bellowed.  He 
passed  a  school-house;  he  saw  the  children,  re 
leased  for  recess,  swarm  out  of  the  doors  like 
bees;  he  glimpsed  their  white  faces;  their  shrill 
cries  came  to  him  in  one  brief  note  as  he  swept 
by,  and  then  he  swerved  to  the  left  into  a  road 
that  went  through  a  pasture  and  then  on  toward 
the  mouth  of  a  canon.  He  had  to  open  a  gate;  he 
fought  at  it  long,  it  seemed,  but  when  remount 
ing,  he  cast  a  look  backward,  he  saw  the  winded 

[188] 


9009 

plough  horses  still  toiling  up  the  hill,  and  behind 
them,  strung  out,  the  two  posses.  Behind,  there 
were  more  horsemen;  and  to  the  right  and  the 
left,  horsemen;  the  whole  world  seemed  aroused, 
converging  upon  him.  He  picked  up  his  sagging 
beast  between  his  knees,  and  galloped  into  the 
dusk  of  the  canon. 

It  led  away  from  the  hill  he  had  for  goal.  He 
went  on  half  a  mile,  left  his  horse  in  the  brush, 
went  on  afoot  another  half  mile,  leaving  a  fairly 
visible  but  diminishing  trail,  then,  crawling 
through  the  underbrush,  doubled  back  along  the 
walls  of  the  canon,  toward  the  south. 

Crawling,  springing  from  stone  to  stone,  al 
ways  in  the  brush,  covering  his  rare  tracks  care 
fully,  he  climbed  diagonally  up  across  the  face 
of  the  hills  for  several  hours;  and  the  afternoon 
sun  struck  him  in  a  warm  wave  as  at  last  he 
came  out  upon  a  round  plateau,  crowned  with 
a  circle  of  black  pines;  running  to  the  centre,  he 
thrust  his  face  into  the  cool  tufts  of  water-cress 
and  drank,  in  long  sucking  gulps,  like  a  horse. 
The  boy  had  told  him  right. 

[189] 


9009 

When  he  had  quenched  his  thirst  to  some  de 
gree,  he  stood  up  and  listened,  intent.  A  quiet 
was  about  him,  a  great  golden  quiet;  a  little 
bird  went  by  his  head  with  a  squeak  and  a  whir, 
and  the  silence  came  flowing  back  in  long  rip 
ples,  like  a  sea.  It  was  the  silence  of  altitudes, 
vibrant,  supersensitive,  through  which  a  sound 
passed  aquiver  like  a  pain;  along  its  crystal,  a 
whisper,  a  mutter,  the  crackling  of  a  twig,  would 
come  for  a  mile.  Collins  listened:  there  was  no 
crackling  of  twig,  no  shout,  no  cry,  not  a  breath, 
not  a  sigh. 

He  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  plateau  and 
looked  down  the  slopes  to  the  valley  beneath. 
Along  the  ribbon  of  road,  small  like  mice,  and 
gliding  without  rise  and  fall  as  upon  wheels,  he 
saw  specks  of  horses  mounted  by  dots  of  men; 
they  were  going  up  and  down  the  road  in  sud 
den  swift  flights,  as  if  bewildered.  He  had  out 
witted  them. 

He  returned,  dragging  his  rifle,  a  little  aim 
lessly  to  the  centre  of  the  plateau.  He  knew 
what  he  should  do — plunge  on  into  the  depths 

[190] 


9009 

of  the  mountains  rising  and  falling  ahead  to  the 
south,  dark  with  pines.  But  a  laziness,  almost 
an  indifference,  possessed  him — the  strange  in 
fluence  that  had  been  with  him  since  the  ceas 
ing  of  the  rain.  It  had  left  him  in  the  excite 
ment  of  the  chase;  now  it  was  with  him  again, 
a  vague  weariness,  an  indolence.  He  looked 
about  him.  The  plateau,  ringed  with  a  circle 
of  pines,  fell  off  toward  the  centre  in  a  gentle 
depression.  In  the  depression  was  the  spring, 
bubbling  up  silvery  among  the  cress.  The  little 
stream  wound  lazily  for  a  few  feet,  then  tum 
bled  abruptly  over  a  mossy  log  in  miniature 
cataract.  About  it  the  grass  was  lush  and  high, 
and  in  the  grass  flowers  peeped — pink  flowers, 
like  small  roses,  and  blue  ones,  like  eyes.  The 
grass  looked  very  thick  and  very  soft.  He  sat 
down. 

And  then  immediately,  sudden  as  a  blow, 
there  came  to  him  the  realisation  that  he  was 
outside.  He  was 'out  in  the  open. 

He  had  been  out  for  three  weeks;  three  weeks 
before  he  had  passed  forever  outside  of  the 

[191] 


9009 

prison's  gray  walls.  During  that  time  he  had 
travelled,  he  had  fought;  he  had  slept  in  the 
rain,  he  had  slept  under  the  stars;  the  sun  had 
poured  upon  him,  the  wind  had  slashed  him; 
not  once  had  he  been  under  a  roof.  And  now, 
for  the  first  time,  he  realised  that  he  was  out 
side. 

He  realised  the  golden  stream  of  sunlight 
slanting  to  him  across  the  hills,  the  smell  of 
fresh  earth,  of  lush  grass;  he  breathed  deep  and 
felt  within  his  lungs  the  clean  clear  air  of  out 
of  doors;  he  saw  the  sky  above  him. 

It  was  blue,  the  sky,  a  fresh  tender  blue.  And 
right  at  its  highest  point,  overhead,  was  a  lit 
tle  white  cloud.  He  let  himself  fall  back,  and 
lay  there,  eyes  up.  The  little  white  cloud  re 
ceded,  receded,  seemed  about  to  withdraw  with 
in  a  secret  door,  up  there  in  the  blue  dome.  He 
shut  his  eyes;  when  he  reopened  them,  the  little 
cloud  was  again  in  its  place. 

A  bee  buzzed  by — an  hour  passed.  A  golden 
spider  weaved  a  fragile  net  from  one  blade  of 
grass  to  another. 

[192] 


9009 

A  soft  drum  of  hoofs  on  the  sward  threw  him 
sitting  up,  his  hand  on  his  rifle.  At  the  edge 
of  the  meadow  a  colt  stood  regarding  him  ob 
liquely,  half-scared,  its  long  knobbed  forelegs 
far  apart.  "Phoo!"  said  Collins.  With  a  de 
fiant  flip  of  hind-heels,  the  colt  vanished  down 
the  slope. 

Collins  remained  thus,  seated,  rifle  in  hand,  a 
moment.  His  movement  at  the  approach  of  the 
colt  had  been  slow;  now  a  languor  was  in  him— 
in  his  limbs,  in  his  veins,  a  heavy  languor,  rather 
pleasant.  He  lay  down  again  and  gazed  up  at 
the  little  white  cloud.  It  retreated  within  the 
depths  of  the  heavens.  He  shut  his  eyes.  It 
sprang  forth  again,  playfully. 

And  meanwhile  a  posse  was  laboriously  climb 
ing  toward  the  rounded  hill  crowned  with  pines. 
It  filed  up  slowly,  in  long  zigzags.  At  its  head 
was  the  sheriff,  patient  and  grim;  he  was  guided 
by  the  boy  whom  Collins  had  met  at  the  water 
ing-trough. 

The  posse  debouched  upon  the  plateau,  and 
quietly,  following  the  gestured  commands  of  the 

[193] 


9009 

prison's  gray  walls.  During  that  time  he  had 
travelled,  he  had  fought;  he  had  slept  in  the 
rain,  he  had  slept  under  the  stars;  the  sun  had 
poured  upon  him,  the  wind  had  slashed  him; 
not  once  had  he  been  under  a  roof.  And  now, 
for  the  first  time,  he  realised  that  he  was  out 
side. 

He  realised  the  golden  stream  of  sunlight 
slanting  to  him  across  the  hills,  the  smell  of 
fresh  earth,  of  lush  grass;  he  breathed  deep  and 
felt  within  his  lungs  the  clean  clear  air  of  out 
of  doors;  he  sawr  the  sky  above  him. 

It  was  blue,  the  sky,  a  fresh  tender  blue.  And 
right  at  its  highest  point,  overhead,  was  a  lit 
tle  white  cloud.  He  let  himself  fall  back,  and 
lay  there,  eyes  up.  The  little  white  cloud  re 
ceded,  receded,  seemed  about  to  withdraw  with 
in  a  secret  door,  up  there  in  the  blue  dome.  He 
shut  his  eyes;  when  he  reopened  them,  the  little 
cloud  was  again  in  its  place. 

A  bee  buzzed  by — an  hour  passed.  A  golden 
spider  weaved  a  fragile  net  from  one  blade  of 
grass  to  another. 

[192] 


9009 

A  soft  drum  of  hoofs  on  the  sward  threw  him 
sitting  up,  his  hand  on  his  rifle.  At  the  edge 
of  the  meadow  a  colt  stood  regarding  him  ob 
liquely,  half-scared,  its  long  knobbed  forelegs 
far  apart.  "Phoo!"  said  Collins.  With  a  de 
fiant  flip  of  hind-heels,  the  colt  vanished  down 
the  slope. 

Collins  remained  thus,  seated,  rifle  in  hand,  a 
moment.  His  movement  at  the  approach  of  the 
colt  had  been  slow;  now  a  languor  was  in  him — 
in  his  limbs,  in  his  veins,  a  heavy  languor,  rather 
pleasant.  He  lay  down  again  and  gazed  up  at 
the  little  white  cloud.  It  retreated  within  the 
depths  of  the  heavens.  He  shut  his  eyes.  It 
sprang  forth  again,  playfully. 

And  meanwhile  a  posse  was  laboriously  climb 
ing  toward  the  rounded  hill  crowned  with  pines. 
It  filed  up  slowly,  in  long  zigzags.  At  its  head 
was  the  sheriff,  patient  and  grim;  he  was  guided 
by  the  boy  whom  Collins  had  met  at  the  water 
ing-trough. 

The  posse  debouched  upon  the  plateau,  and 
quietly,  following  the  gestured  commands  of  the 

[193] 


9009 

sheriff,  the  men  scattered  in  a  circle  behind  the 
pines  crowning  it. 

One  of  the  men  stepped  upon  a  dry  twig,  and 
Collins  sat  up  to  the  crackle.  He  saw  the  man, 
dodging  behind  a  tree,  and  at  the  same  time,  an 
other,  then  arms  passing  or  faces  peering  from 
behind  other  trees.  He  grasped  his  rifle  and 
half  stood  up. 

He  remained  thus,  on  his  knee,  a  moment; 
he  seemed  listening  intently,  listening  not  to 
what  might  come  from  the  outside,  but  to  some 
subtle  inner  command.  And  a  great  wave  of 
lassitude,  of  the  inexplicable  lassitude  that  for 
several  days  had  lurked  about  him,  now  whelmed 
him  in  a  long,  heavy  and  enveloping  caress. 

"Oh,  hell!"  he  said — and  he  lay  down  again 
on  his  back,  in  the  lush  grass,  and  gazed  up  at 
the  little  white  cloud  far  up  in  the  blue  sky,  the 
fresh  tender  blue  sky. 

And  to  the  sheriff's  raised  ordering  hand,  the 
man-hunters  began  to  shoot.  They  shot  from  a 
circle,  at  the  stretched  figure  in  the  centre.  It 
was  hidden  by  the  grass,  it  lay  flat,  it  was  a  hard 

[194] 


9009 

shot;  the  thing  took  a  long  time.  Bullets  spat 
tered  all  about  Collins;  after  a  while  one  went 
through  his  left  arm,  which  lay  across  his  chest. 
To  the  sting  he  rose,  half  angrily,  and  made  a 
movement  toward  his  rifle,  then,  "Oh,  hell!"  he 
s-aid  again,  with  heavy  indifference. 

It  was  almost  sundown  when  the  wily  old 
sheriff,  taught  by  many  lessons  the  futility  of 
haste,  ordered  a  concentric  advance.  The  men 
rushed  forward;  they  met  face  to  face  above  a 
lifeless  body. 

The  sheriff  touched  it  lightly  with  the  tip  of 
his  boot.  "  Well,"  he  said,  and  his  low  voice  in 
the  still  air  had  an  unexpected,  booming  finality; 
"  well,  he  was  a  bad  one." 

But  John  Collins,  with  glazed  eyes,  was  star 
ing  up  at  the  cloud. 


THE   END 


[195] 


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